Timothy Turner and the Entertainment Badge
by Kathryn Wemyss
Summary: Having successfully proposed to Shelagh on his father's behalf, Timothy's next challenge - being the best possible Best Man - is proving slightly more difficult, even with the help of Chummy, Peter and the residents of Nonnatus House. [I've enjoyed reading everyone else's fanfics so much, I thought I'd have a tentative try at one of my own.]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Jennifer Worth and Heidi Thomas run the **_**Call the Midwife **_**practice. I'm just a locum.**

It wasn't until after something which Jack Smith said that Timothy started to worry. Stretched out on the floor on the parish hall, panting and sweating after a particularly energetic tussle at British Bulldogs, he was smugly satisfied at his win, a historic victory for speed and guile over brute force, when he noticed Jack's pink face peering at him quizzically.

"Is it true your dad's going to marry a nun?"

Timothy grinned. "Yes. Sister Bernadette. Except she's actually called Shelagh." Days on, it was still an almost impossible delight to him. "We beat you in the three-legged race at the fair," he added, unable to resist the temptation to rub that in, fresh from his more recent conquest.

However, Jack was still confused. He had heard the women in his building pecking over the subject with sourly excited voices, until his mother had told them to leave it out and boxed his ears for listening in. "I fort nuns ain't allowed."

"She's not a nun any more. She's," he tried to recall the expression he had heard her use during that strange drive back to Poplar, "'left the Order'."

Jack frowned at this; it was a puzzling thought. "So, she decided she don't want to be a nun no more?"

"Yes. She'll still be a nurse though, when she's properly better."

"And now she's going to marry your dad?"

"Yes."

"Did she stop being a nun because of your dad?"

Now it was Timothy's turn to puzzle. Chasing into winding country lanes in pursuit of a nun-who-wasn't-a-nun was so staggeringly unlike the usual torpor of half term that initially Timothy hadn't considered why they were doing it. He had hung out of the window as they tore through the mist, in tremendous excitement at seeing his butterfly correspondent again, never reflecting on what had caused his father's sudden burst of manic animation, after long months of silence and sadness. He simply assumed it was the usual reason: his father desperately trying to get to somewhere he should have been half an hour before.

Then came a moment when he watched from the car and saw his father and Sister Bernadette together, gazing at each other as if they were the only secure points in a spinning world. His father had clutched his coat around her, cradling her within it like precious fragments of something beyond price, and Timothy slowly began to realise.

In the corner of the edge of memory, he recalled another time when his father had clutched a beloved person within a different coat. It had been himself. He was shivering and soaking, freshly pulled from a river he had tumbled into on holiday. His father shook while he wrapped the coat around him, rubbing his arms and shoulders and berating him in a high, stammering voice Timothy did not recognise. He thought he was angry, until he saw his father's face, its blind terror and boundless love. A stabbing combination of guilt, security and love overwhelmed him as he flung his arms around his father's neck and started to cry. Watching him now was sweet and sad and strange; for a brief moment he wondered whether Sister Bernadette was feeling the same ecstatic pain which he in that second could recall so vividly.

When they had their man-to-man chat over hot chocolate that night, Timothy understood long before his father completed the faltering explanations: he had loved Mummy very much and would never not love her, but now he had started to care for Shelagh (not Sister Bernadette anymore, Timothy) just as much. Incredible though it was, she cared for him too, and he wanted Timothy's permission to court her. A chocolaty beam was smearing across Timothy's face, yet his father was still stumbling over the last apprehensive words; if Timothy didn't mind, he wanted to ask her to marry him. They had visited the jewellery shop together to select a ring; it was Timothy who had devised the plot with the wrapping paper.

Yet Timothy had never considered why _she_ had changed in the first place, why she was "Shelagh, not Sister Bernadette anymore". And as he pondered this, he knew there was something odd about that. If it had been a cocoon turning into a butterfly, he would have investigated at once, demanding answers until he received them or pouring through the encyclopaedia in the sitting room. Weren't these changes – the wrong clothes, not being a nun anymore, a new name – as strange as a butterfly emerging? She had been ill, of course, too ill and far away for Dad to let him visit her, even though he had asked more than once, wheedling and even pointing out that she would have come to visit him if it had been the other way around, something his father did not deny. But did that make things change so much? The jigsaw lay in pieces in front of him: the change of name, an illness, her suggesting they run the race together when his father left, his father writing letters to her, the wrong clothes, Dad sitting in the car watching it rain, the way she soothed and teased him when she bandaged up his arm. It vexed him. He shuffled them in his mind, over and over. One last piece needed to put them in order, one last piece to make it clear. Then he knew it:

"_Where are we going then?" Wheels shrieked. No arguments now, no disagreement. He wasn't being left behind or told to stay. Time was too precious._

_They jolted out of the driveway. "To collect Sister Bernadette. She's been discharged from the sanatorium." Before the opening mouth could ask its question, "Allowed to leave. It means she's getting better." A clatter of something being dropped by a street vendor at the corner by All Saints. A blur of grey with a cherry red hat shot past on the scooter, too fast to be identified._

"_Why didn't you tell me, Dad? I asked to visit loads of times. You were going to leave me behind."_

_The docks were a kaleidoscope of brown and black, covered in stinking grey. "I only found out fifteen minutes ago. It was her who telephoned just as you were leaving my office." A mechanical scream as his father changed the gear, muttering so quietly Timothy knew he wasn't supposed to have heard, "I won't let you take a bus back alone, not now."_

She had telephoned him and they had gone to find her and she wasn't a nun anymore. She had put down her cases when she saw them, but not in surprise. She simply stood and stared and waited while his father approached her in a stumbling half-run. And now she was going to marry Dad. The pieces lay in order and the last twist which brought the last one into its rightful place was Jack's question. Just as he had once instinctively known that his mother was dying weeks before the night when his father finally told him, letting him cry himself to sleep in his arms, somehow, without understanding how, Timothy knew why she had made the decision she had. "I think so."

Jack shrugged. "Alright." He liked Timothy's dad; he didn't really see the attraction of making paper frogs, but Dr. Turner was okay. He laughed at the right bits in the Cubs' performances and everyone agreed he was a very good doctor, who 'knew 'is stuff'. Jack vaguely remembered Dr. Turner telling him years ago that breaking your arm is a stage all men go through and that crying didn't matter, as lots of men he'd treated in the army cried, all the time examining him so gently and deftly that he hadn't noticed the sling being put on. More recently, he had once joined in a cricket match in their street, stripping off his jacket and tie to show the boys how to bowl off-breaks like Jim Laker, playing a couple of elegant strokes across the cobbles and then getting himself out when his score was still comfortably modest. Girls were strange. They giggled a lot and did weird things to their hair. Older girls were even stranger. But if you liked doctors (and Jack supposed that a nurse, even a nurse who used to be a nun, liked doctors), then Timothy's dad seemed a sensible enough choice. He hauled himself upright, leant against the pillar in the middle of the hall and rummaged in his pocket until he found the grubby remains of some polos he had bought with his pocket money.

"Congratulations," he said pompously, rolling each syllable around in his mouth and offering a mint to Timothy by way of a peace offering for his inquisitiveness.

Cheerfully, Timothy took it, grinning as he sat up. "Thanks." In the same spirit of camaraderie, he offered his own modest little boast. "I helped Dad propose! And I'm going to be Best Man."

Jack coughed violently and his face turned even pinker. "You can't! You ain't old enough. You'd look stupid."

That rankled. "I'm only a bit younger than you," he retorted. It would not be totally fair to say Timothy felt that life with the Cubs would be entirely different if he, rather than Jack, were the oldest, but he wondered whether a few extra months (and, even better, a few additional inches in height) would have seen him striding forth as a heroic Robin instead of simpering as Maid Marion. Dad and Sister Bernadette had said that it was because he was a good actor and it was an important role, but he wasn't really convinced.

"It's not that! I ain't old enough! I'd look stupid!" Jack continued. "Best Man has to sort out a knees-up at the pub for all the men and get drunk and dance with bridesmaids and everything. They do loads of stuff."

At that interesting juncture, when Timothy would have been more than grateful for the conversation continuing, the whistle was blown. And that was the point when panic started to set in.

The problem, as Timothy realised later that evening, was that the first person he would normally go to with any question was Dad. Occasionally he would wish he hadn't: the time when he peevishly asked why he had chickenpox, hoping for hot chocolate, a cuddle and another chapter of _The Wind in the Willows_, and instead was treated to an earnest explanation of how viruses are spread, was probably the all-time low (although he had to admit that he had been given the hot chocolate, two chapters of _The Wind in the Willows _and several cuddles afterwards). But Dad could be relied upon to give him the answers to questions about pretty much everything, except butterflies, ninety per cent of the time or at least provide him with the right book to find the answer. However he was precisely the one person to whom Timothy couldn't go with this question. If Dad had asked him to be Best Man, then he didn't need to be alarmed by discovering that his son wasn't up to the job. Rather suspiciously, Timothy also wondered if his father had left off the bit about going to the pub, getting drunk and dancing with bridesmaids deliberately for some unknown reason; presumably he did know what a Best Man had to do, given he'd been married before, and that it wasn't just about taking care of a couple of rings.

The second person he would normally have gone to with a question was similarly out of the question: Shelagh-not-Sister-Bernadette-anymore. Timothy wasn't completely sure whether she would have gone to many weddings when she was a nun and of course, she was also a woman, so how could she know what a Best Man did? Additionally there was the fact that while he knew little about weddings, Timothy did know that they were supposed to be 'the bride's day'. However nervous Dad might be at the idea of an incompetent Best Man [a Worst Man perhaps?], it would be even worse for her, especially given she hadn't ever had a wedding before. And beyond all of that, when he remembered how slowly she had let go of his father's fingers before she picked up her bag, got out of the car and walked up the steps to Nonnatus House to talk to Sister Julienne, and how intensely his father had watched her movements until after the door had shut behind her, Timothy wasn't convinced she would be able to keep the predicament secret from Dad.

For a brief moment he wondered whether he could ask one of his teachers at school, but dismissed it immediately: he didn't like being unkind, but he couldn't help thinking that Miss Norris, his new teacher this term, was a little bit silly and not nearly as clever or interesting as Mrs. Fletcher the previous year. However, Mrs. Fletcher was now spending Tuesday afternoons being examined by Nurse Lee or his father at the ante-natal clinic, rather than in front of her blackboard, and even finding out the answer to his question would not make it worthwhile to go through the mortification of speaking to someone by whom he had been taught 'when he was little'. Not for the first time, he thought wistfully about the distant country of grammar school, where he was certain fountains of knowledge would abundantly flow.

He wondered if there was a book which he could borrow on the subject and resolved to search for it at the library on Tuesday afternoon. Mrs. Harrison, their housekeeper, had her day off and unless he was going to Granny Parker's, he always went to the maternity hospital after school, where he was supposed to begin his homework in his father's office and occasionally did. His father would be at the ante-natal clinic, so he wouldn't be missed, and he had a better idea of where the library cards usually were than Dad. Unfortunately for his scheming, when Tuesday afternoon arrived Timothy found himself cheerfully greeted at the school-gates by the smiling face of Shelagh, who had come to surprise him. She was perfectly happy to go to the library and enthusiastically debated the merits of _Treasure Island _over _The Silver Chair_ as they scanned the shelves, laughing when they were told off for noisiness after he pointed out his favourites a little too energetically. He bathed in her unadulterated attention as they discussed a list he had drawn up of ones she ought to read over cake at a Lyons Tearoom and then meandered to the hospital. He loved his father and knew that his father loved him, but the experience of any adult being so completely absorbed by his thoughts and interests, undistracted by telephones or patients or grief or chores, was something Timothy had experienced so rarely since his mother first became ill that he had no recollection of it at all. However, this blissful afternoon did mean that any chance of wandering into a different section of the library in search of a volume which might not actually exist anyway was non-existent.

Two days passed and his ignorance was still dark and vast. He unsuccessfully tried to devise strategies as he dawdled to school in the morning and as he ran home in the afternoon; even an unexpected third 'thinking session' in the middle of arithmetic had produced nothing. He knew he shouldn't have been thinking about it in school, but it was the third time Miss Norris had tried to explain long division to the class and as he understood before her first attempt (Dad having shown him a couple of months before), he couldn't feel too guilty. As he saw it, when he waited by the lights at East India Docks Road, he had two options, both of which revolved around Cubs the next evening. One was to ask Jack, the other Akela, and neither was very satisfactory. Although Jack was always extremely confident about his views, Timothy wasn't entirely convinced that Jack knew quite as much about things as he always said he did, and although Akela wasn't exactly like most women, and he sometimes forgot she was a woman at all, she was still not a man.

The lights turned and he scanned the street, checking that it was safe, when at last the flash of inspiration, so obvious and there all the time, appeared in front of him walking along the pavement. Instead of crossing, he padded over the salvation, black-uniformed and helmeted, which he had been looking for.

"Excuse me? Constable Noakes? Can I ask you a question, please?"


	2. Chapter 2

Being asked odd questions by small boys was not an unusual occurrence for Peter Noakes when on the beat. It was an occupational hazard which he rather enjoyed. He longed for promotion, but a small part of him knew that when that glorious day came, he would look back nostalgically at the strange unpredictability of the street.

Amid the rabble of children having ears clipped and fears calmed, Timothy Turner was unremarkable; a little better spoken, slightly more polite, but an unexceptional bundle of energetic arms and legs, with the tie neatly knotted in the morning and shirt tails escaping by the afternoon. He usually grinned, often waved and occasionally cannonballed into Peter or his colleagues, blurting out apologies immediately. However, he rarely asked questions. He had a resolute self-sufficiency, the origins of which Peter could guess at.

His expression was strange. Normally Peter would have greeted Timothy by thumbing his nose, but this nervous sincerity demanded more. "Hello, Timothy. What do you want to know?"

Timothy swallowed. "When you married Akela, who was your Best Man?"

Whatever question Peter had anticipated, it was not this. Smothering his amusement, he replied, "I can introduce you, if you like. Bill?" He beckoned another policeman, some yards down the street. "Timothy Turner, Constable William Mitchell. Constable Mitchell and I started our training on the same day, Timothy, and have been comrades ever since. Bill, this is Mr. Timothy Turner, Dr. Turner's son and the star musician in Camilla's Cub pack."

Constable Mitchell nodded to Timothy. "I remember you, young man. You'd played the violin in the nativity last year, didn't you?" Timothy nodded. "My niece was an angel. Very enjoyable. Nice to meet you. I hear your father's getting married?" Timothy nodded again, but the expression was wary. "Congratulations. Lovely news."

"Thank you," he replied politely.

The change in the boy's face had been slight, but had not been unnoticed by Peter. "Were you heading home Timothy or to the hospital to see your dad?"

"Home. Dad'll be at work for hours."

Catching the eye of his partner, he continued. "I was just about to patrol closer to your neck of woods, Timothy. Would you mind if I tagged along with you?"

As Timothy shook his head, the partners exchanged glances of total comprehension; a minutely raised eyebrow answered by a barely perceptible nod. Saying his goodbyes, Bill headed back up the street, positioning himself more centrally than before, with a fuller view.

Experience had taught Peter Noakes that however hard a conversation was, it was often a lot easier if you could have it without having to look at anyone. Timothy's fleeting expression concerned him: had he been asked, he would have said he expected Timothy to be delighted about his father's remarriage. The relationship between father and son was close, yet Timothy had always seemed very fond of Sister Bernadette; but that look had been one of anxiety, even pain. They had already sauntered around the corner into Warwick Road when he opened the conversation. "That wasn't quite what you want to know, is it?" he probed.

Looking straight ahead, Timothy shook his head. "No, not exactly."

"What is it, then?"

Timothy looked down awkwardly. "Was he, Constable Mitchell I mean, any good?"

Momentarily Peter wished the supplementary question had been asked when the man in question was present, simply for the fun of considering the question at great length, and the desire to laugh resurrected itself. "Yes. He was great."

"Why?"

Everything about Bill Mitchell had offended Lady Browne, from his accent to him offering her his arm to him recounting the first time they had arrested somebody during his speech: the offence had been indecent exposure. While everybody else, even Sister Julienne, had found it impossible not to laugh, Lady Browne denounced it as vulgar. This alone would have sufficed for Peter to consider Bill Mitchell as the best possible of best men, even without any of the other qualities he had brought to the role; but there had been many, all of which brightened one of his most precious memories.

"I suppose he was reliable and supportive and did all of the Best Man jobs without any fuss," he said.

Timothy's response was a truculent kick at a stone against the side of a shabby low wall, and thrusting his hands into his pockets. Peter now paused, leaning against the wall. "Timothy, sit down," he said, gesturing to a smoother section, in slightly better repair. The boy obeyed and he continued gently. "What is it that you're getting upset about? Is there something worrying you about your dad getting married again?"

"Yes." In silence, Peter digested this answer. Then the dam broke. "Dad asked me to be Best Man and I said yes, because he said it meant standing next to him in church and giving him the rings at the right moment and he said he wanted me to do it because it wasn't just about him and Sister Berna-, I mean Shelagh, getting married, but it was the three of us. But Jack says that being Best Man means lots of other things that Dad didn't tell me about like having a party in a pub and getting drunk and dancing with people and I don't know how to do those things, so I won't be any good and I'll spoil it, but I don't know how to find out what I need to do."

Peter looked away. He had imagined bitter jealousy and resurgent grief and his eyes danced with mirth at the gauche charm of the actual problem; but he was touched by the transparency of the boy's affection. There had been time enough during his vigil the night that Fred was born for Peter to consider with new eyes the bond between Dr. Turner and his motherless son.

Taking a seat beside Timothy, he peered into his face. "So, let's get this straight. You're worried because of something Jack Smith told you?"

"Yes."

"Do you think Jack's ever been a Best Man?"

"No," said Timothy, "but he's been to weddings. I've only been to one, years ago and I can't remember it."

"Alright," continued Peter. "But is Jack always right about everything?"

"No," Timothy conceded.

Peter started to grin. "Is he usually right?"

The smile was infectious and Timothy met his eye. "No, not usually." Now they were both grinning. "But it's not just taking care of the rings, is it? You just said Constable Mitchell did 'all the jobs' without any fuss and you wouldn't need to fuss about rings."

"You'd be surprised." Peter remembered one cousin's stag party, where the rings detached themselves from the Best Man, went for a private party and never returned, resulting in a last minute dash to a pawn shop the following morning. "Your dad's right, Timothy. There are other bits and pieces, _sometimes_, depending on the kind of wedding and what the people getting married are like, but the most important thing with any wedding is the service, when you say your vows and exchange rings and actually get married. So, the big job for any Best Man is to get the groom to the church, properly dressed, ready, with the rings and on time." Conspiratorially, he added, "And, to be honest, Timothy, we both know your dad: that last bit might be quite a big job to be getting on with." For the first time, Timothy laughed. "Agreed?"

"Yes. But," he added, "I still want to know what the other things are, so I can do them all properly. I don't want to spoil it. What are they?"

Peter strongly suspected that somewhere there was a man, a friend, colleague or relation, whom Dr. Turner would ask to carry out the public aspects of the role, or possibly the shy couple, already the subject of swarms of gossip, wanted to avoid them altogether in favour of a quiet ceremony. But the son's earnestness could not be palmed off with cheap refusals. "Alright, I'll tell you.

"There are three things a Best Man usually does: the most important thing is the bit in the church, which you know about. The other two, one's before the wedding and one's at the reception afterwards. Before the wedding you sometimes have a party where the groom's friends get together and have a bit of knees up to celebrate him getting married. It's called a stag do."

"Why? What's it got to do with deer?"

"Nothing to do with deer. You know, I've no idea why it's called that. It just is. It's supposed to celebrate the end of him being a bachelor." Trying to explain the concept of a last night of freedom was beyond him, Peter decided, even to a boy as intelligent as Timothy.

"But my Dad isn't a bachelor. He's a widower."

"Well, yes, so maybe he doesn't want a party and that's why he never mentioned it to you."

Timothy eyed him shrewdly. "Is that the party in a pub that Jack told me about?"

Peter acknowledged that it normally was. "Doesn't have to be though."

"Did you have one?"

"Yes."

"And was it at a pub?"

Once again, he conceded that truth.

"Did you enjoy it?"

What recollections Peter had of that lively night at The Pig and Whistle were somewhat hazy. From his knowledge of both Dr. Turner and his sweet, but rather prim, Shelagh, he imagined that sharing those memories with Timothy would not go down terribly well, even if he could remember them; Camilla had been happy to leave them among the mysteries of pre-married life. His affirmation was suitably vague, however it was enough for the shoulders next to him to droop once more.

"So I should have a party. But I don't know what you do at parties for grown-ups or how you make them happen and I'm not allowed to go to pubs."

"It doesn't have to be party and it doesn't have to be at a pub. Does your dad like pubs?"

Timothy wrinkled up his nose. "I don't know. I don't think he goes to them."

"Be a bit silly to have a party in a pub then, wouldn't it? Let's have a think." In the corner of his eye, Peter noticed two young men loitering, eyeing a bicycle by the kerb. "Why don't we walk? Walking helps me to think." Obligingly, Timothy jumped off the wall and pattered alongside Peter, who slowly started pacing down the street, watching the two young men move on with wry satisfaction. "The only rule with a stag do is that it's with the groom's male friends and you do something the groom likes." This was possibly stretching the truth, but would do for now. "So, you need to think of something that your dad does with his friends at the weekend or when he's not working."

"I don't think Dad's really got any friends."

Peter winced at the cruelty of the observation, more cruel because it was said without any intention of cruelty. Yet what made it still more distressing was that it was true. It was unusual for a day to go past when he did not hear the consumptive growl of the doctor's car hurrying from patient to patient to patient. He was at the centre of Poplar's little world, a cross between sage and saviour, but, for that very reason, was distanced from the community; a revered figure who served them, but an outsider. Guiltily, Peter wondered why he himself had never reached out in friendship towards the lonely man; he liked and respected him, shared his values, admired his care for his patients and their paths frequently crossed professionally. He knew him to be compassionate, assiduous and intelligent. There were differences of character and background, accent and education, but they were far less marked between Patrick Turner and himself than they were between himself and his wife. It was the unspoken difference which exaggerated the gulf between their generations making fifteen years in age seem as unfathomable as a continent: they had both served, but what similarity could there ever be between two years stationed in West Germany, which left him with only lively anecdotes and a loathing for pickled cabbage, and six years of war, about which he had never heard Patrick Turner voluntarily speak? He did not even know on which front he had served. There was something intangible which linked those who had endured the evils which Peter had only followed through black and white newspaper print and crackling accounts on the wireless and which no amount of empathy and imagination could replicate.

"Who does he spend his time with when he isn't at work, then?"

Timothy thought for a moment, then turned slightly pink and answered quietly. "Me."

"And what do the two of you do?"

The blush deepened. "Things that I like doing." He remembered the times he had complained about how much time his father spent at work, about how he was left behind, always second best. The spoken complaints were small streams in the waves of resentment ebbing within him. He had never before examined the small spare time his father had, never been confronted with the fact that it was spent ferrying him to Cubs or violin, cheering him as he wobbled along on his bicycle, bending over a meccano kit or playing board games with him. "He does the things I want to do."

Peter thought of little Fred mewling in his cradle and choked. "Well, that's it, then. You find something both of you like doing and the two of you do that as your celebration."

They continuing their pacing, each thinking of the man whom they loved most in the world: one worn down by work and suffering, the other tiny and unconscious that such things existed. "Dad likes plays," offered Timothy tentatively. "He and Mum used to go to the theatre before she was ill. Perhaps we could go to a play. And maybe Uncle David could come too. I suppose Uncle David and Uncle Kenneth are Dad's friends. They go fishing together sometimes, although it's a bit awkward because Dad doesn't like leaving the practice and Uncle David's busy because he works at a big hospital and Uncle Kenneth lives in Bristol. Dad likes fishing too," he mused, "but it would be too cold to go fishing now, wouldn't it?"

"Suspect so. But you're getting a plan now. And I bet your dad's brothers would help you with it."

Timothy shook his head. "They're not Dad's brothers. I just call them uncle. Uncle David, Uncle Kenneth and Dad all trained to be doctors together. Uncle Michael's my only proper Turner uncle. He's OK, but he lives quite far away too and since Granny Turner died, we don't see him very much. I think Uncle David would help. He's really good at surprises and presents. He took me to Lords once to see Middlesex play, and we always see him when we go Christmas shopping, because his hospital is near Oxford Street. He had lots of good ideas last year about what to get Dad."

Peter smiled. "Sounds ideal." He had no idea who Uncle David was, but the boy's easy affection suggested that he was entirely the right man to help guide him towards some appropriate event. Oddly, Peter also felt a pang of relief: somewhere, acquired some time, there were friends close enough to fulfil this role and Patrick Turner's life of duty had not left him entirely bereft.

As they came to the corner, they stopped. This was now the edge of the area which Peter could legitimately claim was on his beat and while there was a 'grocer's shop' nearby which deserved an impromptu visit, the seedy reasons why he was not prepared to explain to Timothy. He started to make his excuses, however Timothy's interrogation was not yet finished.

"Constable Noakes, what was the other thing?"

"Sorry?"

"You said there were two things. There was a party and there was something else, something which happened afterwards, at the - " he groped for the word.

"Reception?"

"Yes."

Somewhere nearby Peter heard a hum and a low rumble, like an aircraft. He knew its threatening pulse and was not thinking when he gave his careless answer. "Oh, it's a speech to all of the guests. At the reception there are speeches to entertain the guests." The hum rose further, then burst with a blow and a cry. "Excuse me, Timothy. Wait here!" And he sprinted, as far as he could sprint even after Fred's fitness regime, in the direction of the noise.

It took only a handful of minutes for three brawling teenagers to be separated and sent sulking back to their homes. It was ugly, not uncontrollable. However, in those minutes a different damage had been done. When Peter returned to the crossing, Timothy was still patiently standing there. He was only a few years younger than the boys Peter had just admonished, but a stark contrast: against their uncontained fury and a visceral desire to hurt was quiet obedience, motivated by love.

"I'm sorry about that," Peter began, then he observed Timothy's face. It was beyond whiteness; it was almost grey. "Are you alright?"

Timothy replied briefly. "Yes."

"Are you sure? You don't look well."

"No, I'm alright. Could you tell me about the speech, please?" Something had shut down within him. He was still polite and attentive, but the back of his eyes were haunted.

As Peter explained, he waited for awkward questions or acute observations. Yet, Timothy simply listened, occasionally nodding to show his comprehension. It was a new silence. Now Peter realised that in the first few moments after he outlined the 'other thing', he could have appeased this worry with humorous reassurance, but in his absence it had atrophied into fear. He recalled his words, wishing he could reclaim them as easily, introducing the topic more gently.

"So, it's a speech to everyone there about what Dad's like, and it should tell some funny stories about him when he was younger, but it should make the people who don't know him think he'll be a good husband? And it needs to be entertaining."

"It doesn't really matter if it's entertaining or not."

The pursed lips were unyielding. "But good ones are?"

Reluctantly, he answered. "Yes, but it doesn't have to be. It's better to be sincere." He was about to add a further encouragement, to dwindle the enormity of the task, when he was arrested by a change he saw occur in front of him. It was palpable. Almost physically Timothy's shoulders appeared to shift, while his face acquired a granite resolution.

"I see. Thank you, Constable Noakes."

"Timothy, if you don't want to do a speech, it'd be alright. Your dad would have told you all about it if it really mattered to him. And I'm sure you'll be great if you do one. Everyone told me you were fantastic in _Robin Hood._"

"It's not the same, though. When you're playing someone else."

"Not that different. It's still getting up and talking."

Timothy shook his head. "It's just," and the voice trembled, "if it's supposed to be entertaining, it's just - I wish I could just play my violin." He turned away and wiped his sleeve hastily across his nose. Unfooled, Peter considered reaching out an arm towards Timothy, but decided against it. Despite everything, what was most striking was not the boy's distress, but his determination.

Instead he waited until Timothy turned back, then briefly clapped him on the shoulder. "Everyone gets scared about giving speeches at weddings. I did."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Thank you. And thank you for telling me about everything. I need to go home now." In a brief pause, the determined look faltered. The eyes were enormous in the child's face. "Constable Noakes, if you've written one, could you help me write mine?"

Fear rose from the boy like a stench; Peter could not say no.

"Thank you very, very much. Goodbye."

As he watched the child turn and then trudge wearily down the street, Peter was oddly exhausted. Ruefully, he reflected that he had just experienced his first great lesson about the trials of parenting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for the lovely, encouraging reviews!**

It would be wrong to suggest that Timothy felt reassured after talking to Peter Noakes. The old fog of uncertainty was replaced by two fresh and sharply focused approaching storms. However, there were different forms of ease he considered while raiding the biscuit tin, and he did feel better: whatever horror was to be faced, it was far, far better to know what it was than to blunder in darkness.

Despite his initial panic, organising a party had steadily shrunk in fearsomeness. He was still not entirely sure what they would do, but his security was Uncle David, in whom he had implicit faith. Contacting him was an entirely different matter: his father was more indulgent that he often appeared, but not using the telephone was one of the few unbreakable, unshakeable laws of their household. From the earliest time that he understood this rule and his father's vocation, Timothy's most terrifying recurring nightmare had been of a desperate man, expiring breath by guttering breath, repeatedly calling his father, only to receive the engaged tone while Timothy prattled nonsense to an unspecified irrelevance somewhere beyond the handset. He knew Uncle David's address from writing thank you letters for his Christmas and birthday presents, but while he could send a letter, obtaining the reply without his father intercepting it was impossible. He trusted his father to respect his privacy, although letters to Timothy were so infrequent that he was usually only too enthusiastic to share them, but it would raise suspicions.

Conversely, the speech had sprouted new tentacles to trip him up. Simply having to speak at all filled him with dread; he enjoyed acting and was always comfortable playing his violin, but public speaking appalled him. He felt suffocated and his skin tensed. He didn't even particularly enjoy answering questions in class in case he got them wrong, although he frequently asked them. Additionally there were Peter's hasty words 'to entertain the guests'. Just speaking was insufficient. He didn't imagine there would be many guests; he had few relatives, his father's circle of friends was small and the thought of Sister Bernadette having any connections beyond Nonnatus House never entered his head. However, who could know? At his mother's funeral a sea of unknown faces had mumbled condolences to his father's frozen stare. And even if the guests were confined to those whom he knew, they would include Sister Evangelina, who Timothy found one of the world's more terrifying people. He knew that it had been she who first pulled him into the world and sometimes wondered whether she privately regretted her actions.

But, nagging at his mind like a ragged nail, was one selfish fantasy he could not stop indulging: his father watching and listening to him, with the same loving, rapt attention Shelagh blessed him with. And deeper still lay his small epiphany: while his father gave so much to his patients, he gave everything else to him. So often each of his father's failures - sharp words and hasty reactions, late arrivals, clumsy oversights as he struggled to be father and mother both – clung to Timothy's mind, stabbing at his goodwill. Now each memory of affection, laughter and confidences between "Us Two" was illuminated, magnified into something of great worth; and drenched in remorse that he had never truly appreciated them. But if he could conquer his terror and fulfil his father's request, perhaps, just perhaps, he could make amends for a guilt he could not explain.

Beyond his anxiety, however, was a simple, practical problem; how could he deliver a speech about his father when he was younger, when he, Timothy, hadn't been there? His sketch pad lay temptingly on the sitting room bookcase, a half-finished picture he had been creating for Shelagh within it, the pencils on top, but duty tugged stronger than pleasure. Regretfully he turned away, extracted his English exercise book from his school bag, removed the middle two pages and started to plan.

Friday night was Cubs night. Timothy's white flame of sacrifice had been somewhat extinguished by the time he arrived, twenty minutes late due to a quick stop to check-up on an elderly patient which evolved into a lengthy examination for suspected emphysema. The boisterous opening game had finished by the time Timothy irritably slammed the door of the car and ran into the parish hall, without looking back. However, in his pocket crackled the pages from the exercise book, now covered in a gravely composed list to be surreptitiously slipped to Akela for her husband.

However, Akela was not there. The troop were settled cross-legged at the front of the hall, and Fred was grandly explaining the plans for this year's Christmas entertainment; no mere nativity, but, emboldened by the success of _Robin Hood, _a short pantomime.

"_Dick Whittington. _Very appropriate for a group of young Londoners, it being about an ambitious young man in London."

"And a cat!" put in Jack. "Oo's going to play the cat?"

"Dick Whittington's cat is a pivotal role," intoned Fred, "requiring a certain thespian expertise." From different points of the hall, miaows wailed. "It will be a non-speaking role, with no miaowing." At this point someone barked. Laughter erupted. "Or any other animal noises."

"Yeah, but how d'you play a cat?" persisted Jack. "Will it 'ave a tail?"

Fred was unhelpfully vague on this matter and, after pontificating about the major roles, he bustled the troop onto their feet and over to the piano, where Cynthia Miller was sitting, to learn the opening song. Timothy was elbowing his way to the front when he heard Fred whisper. "Young Turner. Lad."

He had a horrible feeling he knew what was coming next. The last time Fred had accosted him in such a fashion had been to cast him as a woman in _Robin Hood_. Having believed that the most embarrassing role in the world was a woman who was in love with Jack, he had the grim suspicion it would prove only second most embarrassing behind playing a non-speaking feline.

"Akela would like to speak to you about an important piece of entertainment at Christmas time. Would you nip along to Nonnatus House?"

Timothy gawped, totally baffled.

"A piece of entertainment which only you will be providing."

This clarification was of no assistance. "Does she want me to play the violin again?"

Fred peered at Timothy, raising his eyebrows cryptically. This, too, was of little assistance, partly because he resembled an outraged egg which had sprouted tufts of fluff, and partly because Fred was, in fact, as ignorant as Timothy was about the meaning of the strange message.

To Cynthia, however, Chummy had confided slightly more. "Timothy," she whispered, "it's Akela's_ husband _who needs to speak to you. About something important just _before_ Christmas."

"Oh!' he cried, comprehension and a flash in his eyes sudden and simultaneous; muttering his thanks, he sidled out of the hall and ran to Leyland Street, ringing the bell lustily before he had time to worry about who would answer it.

While he waited, he found that time. Explaining his presence in the middle of the evening to one of the nurses would be bad; Sister Evangelina would be worse; but worst of all would be his father. He did not know his father's plans for the evening; based on the abnormally tidy hair, the perfectly knotted tie and brushed suit and the attempt to finish his rounds before dropping Timothy off at Cubs, he had strong suspicions that they did not involve being on call. Yet he knew equally well that his father's intentions were always subject to the whims and needs of the people of Poplar. One siren call from that capricious mistress and he followed; it was not impossible that he would be there. From the other side of the door came a muffled exchange, a creak and the dull thud of a lock pulled back. Timothy clutched his cap in his hand, looking down at his feet as the door opened.

The smell was old corduroy and shaving cream. The voice was deep. But on the feet at the end of the too short legs were slippers.

"Great. You got my message from Nurse Miller, then? Come in, Timothy."

Timothy had only twice been in the parlour of Nonnatus House. Once was just after his mother died. He had sat with his father while Sister Julienne offered quiet comfort, with words he could not recall but were like soft music. The room stood in tidy stillness, January frost seeping into the air. The second was some months later when his father had been called to an emergency and he was left with Sister Bernadette, in the days when she was Sister Bernadette. The room was brighter then, with blossoming hyacinths and portly workbags becoming prime features in the game of 'I Spy' they played until she was summoned to prayer. Now it was different again, disorderly but alive, with cups of tea and a half-finished crossword on the table, a teddy atop soft towels on the couch and Akela in the deepest armchair, a tiny baby snuffling in her arms.

"Hello, Timothy."

"Hello, Akela," he said, shyly, twisting his cap in his hand.

"Hope you don't mind, Timothy, but I told Akela about our chat, and she suggested inviting you over to have a bit of a private conversation. Better than plotting in the street, eh?"

"I think it's a wizard idea of your father's to make you Best Man and you'll be marvellous. We told Nurse Miller that it was to do with the wedding, but nothing else. I do hope we didn't betray too many confidences." Her words barely registered with Timothy, who was staring fascinatedly at the baby. Chummy and Peter exchanged smiles. "And this little chap is Freddie, who I think is slightly too young to be betraying any secrets about wedding days to his GP!"

"Are you well now?" Timothy asked, sincerely. Despite the earthquake in his own life, he remembered that she had been in hospital and had been on his father's list of house calls two days earlier. She seemed paler than usual, although she was hardly quieter.

She beamed. "All tickety-boo. Both me and the little bean. A very tired little bean now." Awkwardly, she started to rise.

"Camilla, I'll do it." She started to protest, but her mouth closed as Peter briefly touched her cheek, then extracted the baby, asking as he exited, "Timothy, do you want some Horlicks?"

When Peter returned ten minutes later, Baby Fred tucked up in his cot and Horlicks in hand, Timothy and Chummy were already mid-discussion, poring over Timothy's crumpled list.

"Peter, Timothy's been wonderfully organised and has been planning strategies that would have impressed Monty at El Alamein! He's far ahead of us. Have a look at this."

Peter sat down in the armchair next to Chummy and, picking up the piece of paper, read:

_PARTY_

_Go to theatre Ask Uncle David_

_SPEECH_

_GROWING UP and SCHOOL Uncle Michael (Granny Parker?)_

_ UNIVERSITY Uncle David, Auntie Louisa & Uncle Kenneth_

_ WAR Don't know_

_WORK Sister Julienne?_

_HOME Me _

_PROBLEMS_

_War_

_How to contact people_

"I was trying to work out what I needed to put in the speech," Timothy explained, "and who could tell me stories about Dad's life before I remember him."

"Very sensible," replied Peter. "Is Granny Parker your mum's mum?"

"Yes. Mum and Dad grew up in the same street so she knew him when he was little. Grandpa Parker doesn't really remember things now, but Granny's got lots of stories. But I think I'll wait. I think Granny'll like Sister Bernadette, I mean Shelagh, but they've not met yet and it might make her sad because she'll think about Mummy. We're going to her house tomorrow and then I'll know."

Just as had happened the previous afternoon, Peter's eyes pricked at the child's keen sensitivity. Quickly, he pointed to the last line. "What's the problem about contacting people? Because if it's what I think it is, we might've come up with a solution already."

Timothy explained the phone issue. "That's what we thought," said Peter. "Here's an idea. What if you give anyone you write to, like your Uncle David, this address? If you tell them to write to here and address it to me, then your dad would never know. What d'you think?"

Timothy considered it. It seemed so easy. "I think it would work."

"Wonderful," exclaimed Chummy. "Now, have you got a pencil, Timothy? The address is, Leyland - "

"Leyland Street, Poplar, London, E14. I know that!" He sipped his Horlicks, while Peter chuckled quietly. "Constable Noakes, what do you think I should do about the war problem?"

"Well, tell me what it is first."

Timothy wrinkled his nose. "I know Dad was in the Army during the war. But I don't know what he did. He doesn't talk about it. I found some medals once and he told me to put them away because they were just for being in that bit of the war and they weren't important."

Peter took his time before answering, putting down his own cup of tea and leaning forward. "Right, I see. Timothy, if your dad doesn't like talking about it, d'you think he'd want you to investigate it? War experiences can be pretty horrible, not what you'd want in a speech. My dad was in the first war and when people mention it, he gets very upset."

"Dad doesn't get upset. He just doesn't talk about it. And even if I didn't mention it in the speech, shouldn't I find out first? Then we could decide. If he was very brave, everyone should know, shouldn't they? If it's a speech about who he is, that's part of who he is, isn't it?"

"Yes, I suppose." It troubled Peter, but he saw the truth in what the child said. "It may be hard to find out anything. Do you know anything about your dad's war service?"

"I know he was in the Royal Army Medical Corps." Each word was distinctly enunciated, the last stressed as though carefully learnt. "I think there was something in France, starting with D."

Peter started. "You don't mean D-Day?"

Timothy shook his head. "No, it was a place. How do we find out? Can you find out as a policeman?"

Before Peter could explain the restrictions on using police resources for private detection, Chummy spoke up. "I've got an idea about how we could carry out our investigation. My friend Binkie's oldest brother, Hugh, is in the army. Hugh's just returned to England to start a new job at Sandhurst. If you can find out a little more evidence, perhaps the name of the place starting with D, I can write to Hugh and he could put us 'on the right track'. That would work, wouldn't it?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Not at all. It's all jolly exciting actually! Like being a detective or a spy, with secret meetings to plot our strategy!" They laughed conspiratorially. "Besides, I owe your pa a great deal, Timothy. I'm not sure I would have survived my first few weeks in Poplar if it hadn't been for some of that confidence he gave me," she added.

"How?"

Simply, she told him her earliest memories of his father while Timothy listened, the cooling Horlicks forgotten: words of congratulations after Sister Evangelina's sarcasm. She feared they were ironic until she saw the kind smile. The remark she overheard, 'Nurse is managing things beautifully', in the middle of the terrifying breech birth. She could not convey how she still cherished his words – 'the mark of a good nurse' – a thread in the thin red strand which sustained her, carrying them with her to Africa in the hope of giving something to the world. "I've never thanked him, and I should. He was the first doctor who ever treated me with complete professional respect."

"Weren't you a nurse before you came here?"

"Yes," she said. "For five years." Peter's hand slipped into hers, his thumb gently circling her palm, while Timothy knit his brows, the shrewd processing in his dark eyes so like his father it was eerie.

"Can I mention that, Akela? In the speech, I mean," he asked bashfully.

"Gosh. I'd be rather honoured if you did."

His pencil scratched as he noted down the details on the reverse side of his list, each comment she made recorded with painstaking care. Little sounds of a gentle evening rustled – his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth, the shrill cry of the telephone two doors away, the clock's quiet heartbeat – while he handed her the notes to be checked for accuracy like homework.

It was the clock which broke the fine weave of their concentration, with the hour chiming. "My goodness, Timothy," exclaimed Chummy, returning his precious piece of paper to him. "This was only supposed to be ten minutes. If you don't dash yourself back to the hall, Fred will be marching in here accusing me of sabotaging the pantomime." She and Peter exchanged a very knowing laugh.

"What do you mean?"

She raised her eyebrows mischievously. "Fred has a rather jolly surprise for you at Cubs."

"What is it?"

"Go and ask him," chuckled Peter. "I'll let you out."

Wondering, he departed, groaning when he fell for Peter's mock handshake, which turned into a nose thumbing and only realising after the door had closed that what Peter had thrust into his other hand 'to give you a bit of a help out' was a handful of stamps. Then, for a moment, he stopped on the top step and looked down at his notes. The memories were kind and simple and true. He had made a start. Smiling, he rammed the paper into the back pocket of his shorts, bounded down the steps and sprinted back to the hall, banging the door as he entered, panting and cheerful.

"And here he is," declaimed Fred. Four boys stood on the stage next to him, two excitedly giggling, one embarrassedly squirming and the last, Jack Smith, nonchalantly leaning against the wall. "The role of Dick Whittington's cat will be played by Timothy Turner."


	4. Chapter 4

Timothy's instincts proved doubly correct. Joan Parker did like Shelagh. She had been so startled by Patrick's confessional telephone call that what he told her of his new fiancée barely registered and initially she marvelled at the small, discreet girl, as she unconsciously considered her. The old-fashioned quaintness was so strangely juxtaposed by the deceptively youthful face as they discussed cross-stitch and tea cosies over lunch and Patrick patiently sat with her husband, answering the same questions he was asked every time. But then she heard her soothe Timothy's woes over the pantomime with robust sense and blossoming wit, already maternal; and she started to like her for herself. She watched her eyes endlessly seek Patrick, his slavish awareness of her every gesture or cadence, and once she caught an instance when their eyes found each other, absorbing each other in their own world; and she felt so like a voyeur she had to look away. She had loved Patrick as a son so long she scarcely knew a different love for her own children. She had waited and prayed with her daughter in the war, willing the familiar dark head which had climbed her trees, trudged home with textbooks and proudly walked along the road in his graduation gown to reappear at her door. She could not grieve to see something of that young man returned, refined now by grief, nor fail to like the gentle catalyst for his happiness. When a summons arrived and Patrick vanished at a twitch upon the thread from the surgery, they talked of Timothy and family, then places and books. When the girl shyly asked for Patrick's and Timothy's chest sizes, she told her, uncovering the reason and lending knitting patterns for jumpers to be made as Christmas gifts for the family which by then they would share. And when Patrick returned to usher them away, she kissed her goodbye, a benediction for the woman who would be her grandson's mother. Yet, after she closed the door and calmed her husband's confused questions, 'But where was Elizabeth? Why did Patrick not bring her? And who was the little boy?', she went to her room and found her box of photographs. A tall, dark-haired young woman joyously cuddles her baby; she gravely smiles beside a thin RAMC officer on church steps; lovingness perches within the posed stare of a studio photograph to be taken into war. The vibrant woman within the images was now more cold and lost and dead than she had ever seemed; and Joan Parker sat on the edge of her bed and quietly wept.

They drove away from the Parkers' house in sunlight laced mist and in a quiet park near Poplar stopped to walk through piles of leaves in smoke tinged air. Patrick left them feeding chilly ducks to make his 'one short call', returning an hour later to find them smiling over hot drinks in a café. For some minutes he stood outside the window, watching before he entered. They sat laughing, Timothy explaining something at great length, his arms windmilling, while Shelagh teased him with lively questions. For that affectionate expression alone, he felt he could never love her enough. Their naturalness unnerved him; the ease of his son's love for his lover and hers for him almost frightened him. After wandering for months in a labyrinth of uncertainty and guilt, the new reality was still a mystery, too beautiful to be believed; every morning when he woke, he expected to find it shattered. Frozen in contemplation, afraid to believe the truth, it was peculiarly as though he had died himself and must watch someone else with their beloved child, aching for a forbidden and unreachable joy. But another instinct urged too, whispering to move beyond the glass and into life, leaving the past in the freezing chill; enter, embrace them both and, for the first time, take them home.

Shelagh's only knowledge of Patrick's house was vague and distant: a short wait in the sitting room while he searched unsuccessfully for a lost instrument, and two professional visits to treat Elizabeth Turner early on in her illness. In almost two weeks since their betrothal, she had never been to the home which would be hers in weeks.

The reason for this had been unspoken between them, but simple and understood. News of their engagement had been better received in many ways than he had expected. At Nonnatus House, the reactions were so entirely predictable that part of him wished he had been present when Sister Julienne made the staggering announcement simply for the amusement of watching them all. Nurse Lee smiled but could not hide her astonishment, which he suspected was at the thought that anyone would abandon their entire life for so shabby and tired an old man; Nurse Franklin was momentarily struck dumb, but swiftly regained her sang-froid and roguishly told him that it was 'Tickety-boo and marvellous', the comment so arch that he knew it was an allusion to something although neither he nor Shelagh had any sense of what. Jane and Nurse Miller were sweeter, kinder, with Nurse Miller shyly saying it was 'really lovely', before scuttling away from his thanks. Fred grinned, while the Noakes were as cheerily unperturbed by the bombshell as only a couple who had packed up their lives, moved to another continent for six months, returned to no home and then had a baby could be. He knew that there had been fervent demands for information made of Shelagh, but her chuckle hinted that she quite enjoyed their excited curiosity. The nuns were harder to gauge: he doubted Sister Monica Joan fully understood, but while Sister Evangelina harrumphed at him, this was not a new experience and she was not particularly unpleasant. These kindnesses he suspected they owed to Sister Julienne's discreet support. However, one of his deepest fears was that she herself, although too dignified and fond of Shelagh to say it, disapproved, feeling that Sister Bernadette had been misled in her vocation and that no human love or man could adequately substitute what she given up. His deepest fear was that the latter was true.

In the wider community, however, an epidemic of gossip raged, its symptoms manifested in every consultation or visit, in direct comments or conversations which suddenly stopped when he arrived. A couple of people joked about him 'getting on well the nuns, then!', while Len Warren stopped him in the street, beaming congratulations and offering to 'fix up any rooms that need doing for the new Mrs. Doctor cheap, just a thanks for what you two've done for Conchita and the nippers.' There was that one young man, soon to be married and in the middle of a consultation about an embarrassing complaint, who had tried to cover his awkwardness after Patrick suggested relaxing and letting nature take its course during the honeymoon by blurting out 'Same to you, doc', a joke which only made the meeting more uncomfortable. In all honesty, though, his patients were almost universal in their joy, a fact by which he was enormously touched.

Their protection from the murmuring he dreaded, more for her than himself, was years of integrity, an unobtrusive virtue beyond suspicion. Yet it was naïve to believe it was not happening and once he had overheard the filth himself: descending the revolting stairs of the abject Peabody Building, voices floated up towards him.

"How long d'you reckon it was going on? Perhaps he's _got_ to marry her."

"Goes to show you never know, do ya? No-one's that good even if they is a nun. Ain't so good and proper now."

"What about 'im? Ain't that worse?"

There were only two voices dribbling venom and others rose in anger against them, but he physically recoiled, his hands curling into fists at the malice of the suggestions. The accusations against himself he could endure, but the attack on Shelagh wounded him like stabbing. He was appeased thanks to a strange champion, who roundly berated her neighbours as a bitch and a whore who thought everyone was as bad as they was and who she'd bloody murder for having a go at the doctor and that little nun. On hearing blows, accompanied by cheers, he quickened his pace and the brawling women parted as he appeared. Their angry defender was Pearl Winston. He had treated her for syphilis and a subsequent miscarriage; Shelagh had delivered two of her children. Guiltily he knew that he had always considered her as a negligent parent and something a slattern, but he would never forget her passionate belief in their integrity nor cease to be grateful for it.

Yet gossip could mutate and multiple and their weapon in the weeks to come was restraint. Somehow, they had managed to meet every day since the moment they opened their book of revelation, albeit often only for minutes stolen between consultations and clinics. However each meeting had been in a public place: the parlour of her lodgings under the landlady's eye; short walks around the canals or in the park; a tea shop; one blissful uninterrupted dinner at a restaurant just outside the district; and an afternoon at the Natural History Museum, a half-term treat for Timothy, which became strange and disconcerting when a curator congratulated them together on the intelligence of their son's questions. He was starting to respond, uncertain what the answer to the compliment now was, when he felt her hand, to his mind so small and soft, slip into his. He still was not sure what her gesture had meant. The public were their chaperone, as they studied and learnt each other, hesitantly graduating in intimacy. From her arm tucked protectively within his, their hands met, his arm encircled the slim waist, then kisses dropped briefly on her temple, her cheek and the slight, shy brush of his lips on hers; beautiful, bewitching and never, never enough.

But now the worst of the initial furore was over and with Timothy and his housekeeper as their security, he opened the door to his house and invited her in.

For Shelagh, this second introduction of the day was far more daunting than meeting Joan Parker. Living in nurses' quarters at the London and then Nonnatus House for over a decade, institutions had been homes for her, with no option to reinvent them to her taste. Ownership over a building or creating a home were alien concepts to her. Convinced early of her vocation, the last time she had built dream houses, imagining how she would make a castle in the air for her unknown beloved, had been in her mid teens. The reality of a modest Victorian house, fitted out with not only furniture, but a housekeeper and long-established domestic traditions was alarming. She had no knowledge of how one made a home, beyond the simplest truth of loving the occupants. In her fear she did not know that this was enough.

Irrepressible Timothy was all for marching her around the house, showing her every room and telling every story. However, Mrs. Harrison, Patrick's housekeeper, was wiser. A widow from North Yorkshire, she was a gentle lady, who had moved to London to be close to her son following her husband's death. The job initially had been a day a week to help the doctor's run down wife, but as time passed, Elizabeth's exhaustion grew with the same virulence as the dimly suspected cancers. Gradually Margaret Harrison took on more and more hours, until she was one of the household. A room awaited her at her son's house, but affection for Dr. Turner and his boy kept her with them. She delighted in welcoming the doctor's future bride, issuing her into the sitting room to spoil her with tea and freshly made scones, while Timothy contented himself with performing his latest violin pieces. Nor did Mrs. Harrison rebuff her help when Shelagh appeared some time later, asking if she could assist with dinner. The meal had been prepared hours earlier, but they settled into a partnership to wash and dry the dishes, both eager to please as they lightly chattered. Mrs. Harrison skilfully tacked between deferring to her, easing her into the role she would soon fill, and kindly guiding her, teaching her the tricks of the house, entertaining Shelagh with a tour of the kitchen and confiding to her the secret place where her best pans were hidden on her day off, to stop the doctor from accidentally burning them.

"Bless him, but I've lost two of them that way and I live in dread of the kettle. You'd think a man so clever would do better, but he really can't cook at all, my dear. I leave him something to heat up on my day off, but he always seems to forget. You come back and the meal's left, but everything in the biscuit tin's gone and the bread bin's empty. I'm sure he just eats a plate of rubbish from a greasy spoon. I do my big bake on Mondays now, so at least there's something! If you'd like, I can keep on with that, although we've plenty of time to discuss it, I'm sure, when you've had time to think."

"What about Timothy on your day off?"

"I think he lives on cornflakes and biscuits! I don't think he minds the excuse to eat biscuits, though!"

Shelagh laughed. "I can certainly imagine that. I've known other people who were similar!" In a few minutes Mrs Harrison was wiping her eyes over the stories of Jenny Lee, Sister Monica Joan and the vanishing coconut sponge and a pregnant pig called Evie which, Marie Antoinette-like, was encouraged to eat cake.

"At least he admits it about cooking. I've tried and tried to get him to let me do his mending, but he just won't ask. Did you notice the darn in the knee of his suit trousers?" Shelagh nodded. She had noticed it many times, but suit trousers were harder to discreetly take aside and mend than a clinical coat missing a button. "It's hard not to notice, isn't it? He did it himself and it's fine I suppose, but it's so clumsy. I wish I could fix it, but he'll never let me, just mends things himself, except he misses problems when they're little before they get to that stage."

"I wonder how he learnt." Through her mind ran an image, both comic and pathetic, of Patrick solemnly applying the same rules to mending his trousers that he had learnt for suturing wounds, but with results so much less neat than the stitching she professionally admired. She wondered whether he fastidiously washed his hands first and rushed off to smoke immediately afterwards.

"In the army," she replied promptly, then saw Shelagh's face fall and guessed at her discomfiture, discovering the things that she had not guessed and did not know, while this older lady did. She softened the answer, "I suspect, love. My Andrew was in Monty's army. He came back from Africa able to do all kinds of things he'd never done before, fixing his uniform and so on. It's a shame for Katie, that's my daughter-in-law, lovely girl, that he never seems to do them now!"

The kitchen burst into laughter once more.

Leaving the kitchen, shooed out by Mrs. Harrison to 'enjoy your time with them, dear', she walked into the middle of an unexpected routine. When she had slipped off to the kitchen, Patrick had been vanishing into his study to repack his briefcase, while Timothy was bent over his sketch pad. Now they were both in the hall, sitting cross-legged at the bottom of the staircase, sleeves rolled up, Patrick bereft of jacket and tie, with tins of polish, brushes and dust cloths. Spread out in front of them on newspaper were shoes: two old, creased pairs of Patrick's, one black, one brown, Timothy's black school shoes and brown sandals, both scuffed at the toes, Mrs. Harrison's court shoes, brought out once a week for church, and workaday black lace-ups, and at the end, with mud on the edges, her own dull utility shoes, which she had worn when they were walking in the park and then left in the boot of the car, unaware that Patrick had quietly retrieved them and brought them into the house. They were intent on their task, a small production line where Patrick scraped off mud and applied polish, while Timothy brushed it off and dusted and buffed the shoes to a shine.

"Hello, what are you doing?"

Timothy looked up blankly. "It's Saturday," he said, as if that answered her question.

"We always clean the shoes on Saturday afternoon before dinner," explained Patrick. "I suppose we always have. One of the chores for - "

"'Us Two'" interjected Timothy.

Patrick laughed. "I was going to say for the men of the house, but, yes, for 'Us Two'."

"Like taking out the bins and clearing the drive-way."

"And mowing the lawn and cutting the hedges." They grinned at each other.

"It looks like you have quite a system here!"

"Yes," replied Timothy. "Dad does the cleaning and putting polish on with one brush and I take off any extra polish and shine them up. I'd like to put the polish on, but Dad says I get too messy."

"Think Dickensian chimney sweep."

"Do you want us to do those?" asked Timothy, pointing at the pretty, nude heels she was wearing.

"Oh, you don't need to do that," she said, hurriedly, instinctively stepping back, almost hiding one foot behind the other. "You've got plenty enough to be getting on with and I don't think you can polish these anyway."

"Why not?" continued Timothy. "We do all our shoes on Saturday evening. Dad's, mine, Mrs. Harrison's. If we can't polish them," he added, squinting at them, "we could still brush them a bit."

"It's what we always do, Shelagh. If you didn't mind, we'd like to. Please?" Patrick said, quietly. He neither pled nor asserted, allowing her to decide, but his understated words altered the moment, its significance magnified. Briefly she nodded and sat down on the stairs to take them off. The pair was precious to her, part of the first outfit she had bought after leaving the Order, when even entering the shop had left her in turmoil. She had been torn between her innate frugality and modesty, both learnt and instinctive, and a mild but long-felt wistfulness for the pretty things the younger nurses wore, while she struggled not to feel guilt at the other desire, the one she was reluctant to admit even to herself: to find something which Patrick would find attractive, even while knowing how unlikely it was that he would ever notice her shoes. She had been wearing them for the first time on the day she became engaged, precariously picking her way down the steps of the hall to him, so anxious that he should still want her now the transformation was complete.

She began to reach for the right shoe, but Patrick was quicker, his hands already there. Having shifted his position slightly at the foot of the stairs, he was sitting below her now, his face only inches from her knee and she felt his breath washing over her calves, but he did not look up and she could not see his face as he took her ankle in his hand; the touch was light, yet she felt it as though he was probing below her skin. As he slowly eased the shoe off, removing it and gently placing her foot back on the step, she crimsoned, uncertain whether she was seeing a similar flush on his own face, still bent over her legs, or it was simply the shadow of his hair falling over his face as he felt for her other foot and repeated the action. More clumsy this time, was he shaking, when the shoe came off his thumb slipped across her instep, two of his fingers trailing on her stocking, and a wall of flame flashed over her. It was only when he turned back to the pile of cleaning to be done, that she could breathe once more.

"Your face is all red," commented Timothy.

"Perhaps I'm a little hot," she murmured, hardly aware of what she was saying. Patrick, always so solicitous about her health, said nothing now, but kept his focus on his task, letting Timothy chatter on and be the one who presented the shoes back to her when the cleaning was finished and whatever fevered expressions either of them might have had were cooled.

The dinner Mrs. Harrison had prepared was simple and delicious, food which spoke of home and comfort: a steak and kidney pie, followed by a rhubarb crumble so sticky and flavoursome that Timothy "scraped the pattern off the plate" as Patrick put it while ruffling his hair. The housekeeper retired before the meal, claiming to Shelagh that Saturday evening was her Yorkshire time, when she wrote letters to friends and family. If there was another reason which made her slip away, quietly satisfied by the three contentedly eating together while the gramophone spilled moonlit music into the room, it did not discredit her.

The clearing away was completed by Timothy and the washing up by Patrick and Shelagh, after which the Monopoly board appeared. With it began an intense discussion between father and son about whether their private board game league stood at ten-seven in Timothy's favour or eight all; on the grounds that one game of Monopoly should have been declared void because the doctor hadn't been in a position to collect his rents for the last third of the game, as he was delivering a baby, while Timothy had also cheated in a game of draughts when he altered the position of the pieces on the board when his father was at the bathroom, and thus should default.

Shelagh gathered early on that she was playing against, if not two masters of the game, then at least two demons. Neither gave a quarter. Initially she was tempted to indulge Timothy with soft deals, but soon realised that he would consider this an insult, while even being the object of Patrick's affection was no defence against his gamesmanship. Both played with outrageous ruthlessness, stretching the rules to breaking point and unrepentant about tactics such as blatantly distracting opponents when they landed on their property in the hope that they wouldn't be spotted and could squat rather than play rent. After the third time she had been cheated this way, twice by Timothy and once by Patrick, her own latent competitiveness surfaced and she found herself demanding rents, cheerfully negotiating Timothy into a corner over the purchasing of Marylebone Station and gleeful when Patrick was forced to mortgage Mayfair and Park Lane to pay off a horrific bill for general repairs. At this point she shot a furtive glance at him, in case he was appalled by this unknown aspect to her personality; he, however, seemed most entertained and less surprised by it than she was, lamenting that he should have anticipated this after a certain three-legged race where the Corinthian spirit went out of the window in pursuit of victory. She blushed at the memory and even more at those which succeeded the race, knowing that although he was answering Timothy's question about what Corinthian spirit meant, he was watching her, eyes sparkling with amusement. Briefly she wondered if her sisters would be appalled to see her now, competing so fiercely and laughing so freely, then realised that so entirely right did the moment feel, she simply did not care.

It was towards the end of the game, with it finely poised, that the outside world destroyed their idyll. The telephone rang.

Sitting where she was, she saw both faces and the manful way in which they tried to cover their reactions. Patrick was quicker, smoothing his features with bland professionalism, but she saw the two quick waves first; of frustration, then resignation. Timothy was more overt with his displeasure, although he stifled his sulky moan and stared impassively at the board.

The familiar responses, muted from the hallway, were just as they had often been when she heard them down the telephone herself. Then, they were an inexpressible relief, knowledge that she would soon be assisted by the colleague she respected most. Now she saw it from the other side; his stoicism, but crushing disappointment. Quietly, she followed him into the hall and was standing only feet behind him when he put down the receiver.

He did not know she was there and leaned his head on the bannisters, his eyes closed. "One evening," he muttered. "One Saturday evening with them. Was it really too much to ask?" He was about to lift his head when he felt her hands rest on his shoulders.

"Who was it?" she asked, as he turned around.

"Nurse Miller. Betty Williams has had a fall, she can't find a heartbeat and she suspects they've lost the child." Her hands were still on his shoulders, gently stroking them, no accusation on her face. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

"I wanted us to have the whole evening. I'm not supposed to be on call tonight. I hoped that doing my rounds this morning and the check-up this afternoon - "

"It doesn't work that way, Patrick. We both know that. The babies of Poplar don't really worry about our social lives!"

He laughed and briefly hugged her, wondering, not for the first time, why he was so afraid of simply taking her in his arms and kissing her as deeply as he wanted to. "Sadly not." His arm remained around her waist as they headed back into the sitting room. "Timothy, I'm sorry, but - "

"You've got to go out on a call." The voice did not whine, but it was cold.

"You know when bedtime is."

"Yes," replied Timothy, scowling, then, at a sharper look from his father, more subdued, "yes, alright."

"And?"

"Horlicks. Hot chocolate's only for 'special occasions and man-to-man chats'."

"_And?_"

Timothy's expression was as innocent as a choirboy. "_One _chapter."

"Yes. Try to make sure it's fewer than four." Timothy looked sheepish, then grinned as his father winked at him. "Please don't drive Shelagh mad. Sleep tight, son."

By the time he had collected his bag and jacket, hastily doing up his tie and pushing his feet into the black shoes en route, Shelagh was standing by the front door to help him into his coat and wind his scarf around his neck.

"I'm sorry. I really am."

"I understand. They need you too. I'll be here when you get back."

He frowned. "It could be hours, Shelagh. You need your rest." He started fumbling in his jacket pocket. "I can give you money for a taxi."

She stilled his searching hand and took it in hers. "Patrick, stop. I'll wait for you."

"I don't want you to be compromised. What if it's really late?"

She squeezed his hand. "I don't think I'll be compromised by being in your house with your son and your housekeeper while you're on the other side of Poplar dealing with a patient. And if anyone sees that as compromising behaviour, then they're far too silly to be taken seriously. I'll be here when you get back. Please let me be here."

Slowly, he nodded and kissed the top of her head.

"Now go. Take care of Cynthia. She'll be distressed."

And he was gone, already mulling over the clinical complications Cynthia Miller had outlined to him. It had been less than three minutes since her telephone call to him had ended.

She watched the car splutter into life and out of the drive, remembering how Patrick had carefully turned it when they first arrived. She saw in that now a mirror of her own reluctance to rest or eat until she had cleaned her instruments and repacked her bag after a call. When the tail lights blinked and disappeared around the corner of the street, Shelagh shut the door.


	5. Chapter 5

Suddenly the house felt much stiller, almost shadowy. The parade line of shoes seemed bereft with the largest pair dismissed. She had little heart to return to the game, knowing only part of what had made it so lovely remained, but she fixed a smile onto her face and entered the sitting room.

Timothy was neatly organising the property cards in their correct order: Old Kent Road, Whitechapel Avenue, The Angel Islington, Euston Road. The board and pieces were already packed away.

"We could carry on," she began, but he shook his head, while putting the cards back into the box.

"It gets difficult." It was weary wisdom gained from prior experience.

"A new one might be nice? I definitely need the practice! I never saw such determination!"

Timothy grinned. "Some of my friends' dads let them win, but Dad never does. If it's chess he gives me an extra queen or a rook or something and he lets me use the dictionary in Scrabble, but then he'll try to beat me all the same. I like that, because when you do win you know you won properly."

"So, would you like to start another game, Timothy?" she asked, reaching for the board.

"No," he shook his head again and replaced the box on its shelf. "We've not got time. It's only an hour till bedtime and I have to have my bath first. Thank you though." Suddenly he brightened. "I'll show you the house! Come on." She was not sure how Patrick would feel, but was reluctant to crush Timothy's resurgent good-humour and stood up to follow him.

He had not left the room though. "This is the sitting room," he said expansively, as if she had not been sitting there for the best part of the previous ninety minutes. "I'm supposed to do my homework in my bedroom, but I usually do it here instead."

"Why's that?"

He looked uncomfortable, but answered directly, as if knowing that she, of all people, would understand. "Dad usually does his work in here in the evening or listens to music and reads if he's at home. There are useful books here too," he added, as if ashamed by the sentimental admission.

She could see the useful books – an encyclopaedia in three volumes, a large dictionary, an atlas, the complete works of Shakespeare – in an alcove on the side of the fireplace. Rather to her surprise, there was also an elegantly bound Bible; she wondered if it had been Elizabeth's. This was clearly Patrick's side, with a collection of well-thumbed novels on the shelves below. The mix was eclectic, Graham Greene and George Orwell living cheek by jowl with Agatha Christie. To find _The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists _among them was unsurprising: she had not read it, but knew of its fierce humanitarianism. That _Casino Royale _was slid on top, possibly more recently read, was slightly more illuminating. Below the books was a simple decanter, of whisky she guessed from the colour, some glasses on a tray and a half-filled ashtray. The whole display was sober and neat, but sparse.

Yet viewing the room objectively, she saw that this alcove was not alone in that and what had previously charmed the room for her had been its occupants. It displayed signs of family life, but little of the clutter which tells of it and she felt the lack of jumble: pointless holiday souvenirs, absurd presents only valued by the giver and receiver, children's drawings, hobbies which colonised. Even the serene parlour at Nonnatus House contained tell-tale hints of the women who lived there: the limbs of unfinished gollies occasionally found under cushions, Sister Julienne's delicate watercolours left to dry on the table, even the odd abandoned pair of Trixie's shoes. The furniture was well-preserved and carefully polished, three paintings appeared on the walls, a gramophone gleamed on top of the sideboard, with the collection of records underneath, while a cabinet radio sat in the corner. But there was an absence to the room, something lacking.

It was countered by only two things. One was a number of photographs, mainly on the sideboard. There were posed wedding photographs of various couples from different times, including Patrick and Elizabeth, but predominantly they were precious snatches of family life: Baby Timothy with mother and grandmother, a very funny one of him as a toddler, sitting on Patrick's knee and attempting to use his stethoscope, and all three of the Turner family crowded around the MG, somewhere in the country.

The other was the second alcove, on the other side of the fireplace, which Timothy introduced as his. A litter of board games lived on the top shelves, with his folded music stand and violin on the shelf below. Then at the bottom was a kit for making a model aeroplane, a sketch pad, pencils and a paint box, on top of a pile of old newspaper. It made her smile; clearly it was not just cleaning shoes which Timothy completed rather messily.

"Most of my stuff's in my bedroom, but these are the special things. I'll show you the rest later."

She took one last glance around the room as Timothy marched her away, wondering whether the polished sadness of the room was due to careful preparations for her sake, or had been there far longer. Either way, she ached at its poignancy.

The dining room was speedily dispensed with as 'a bit boring', and they detoured into the back of the house, with Timothy pointing out Mrs. Harrison's rooms and entrance, which were strictly out of his bounds, before arriving at the kitchen. For Shelagh, already taken around it by Mrs. Harrison, her interest lay in what Timothy chose to show her. While Mrs. Harrison proudly pointed out the stove and the larder, Timothy ignored the room's usual functions, apart from collecting the biscuit tin and Horlicks 'for later'; the only similarity between what he and Mrs. Harrison spoke of was the same crushing assessment of Patrick's ability at cooking.

Instead he dragged out the step-ladder to show how the view from the window 'went for miles', a fact she took on trust, it being too dark to see anything beyond the start of the garden. He then let down the drying rack which hung from the ceiling, explaining how it could be used for aerial fights between his planes if he tied them on in the right place and poked them with his violin bow.

"And what does Mrs. Harrison think about that?" she asked.

He gave her an impish look. "Not a lot. She lets me away with it on special occasions."

Returning to the hall, after briefly sticking her head into the cobwebbed cupboard under the stairs, she thought they would go straight upstairs. But then he stopped and looked at a closed door next to the dining room.

"That's Dad's study," he said. "Nobody really goes into it apart from him. Mrs. Harrison sometimes cleans it, but she calls it a 'midden'. What does midden mean?"

"In this context it probably means a wee bit of a mess."

"Oh. That's fair. It's Dad's den." He pushed open the door and stepped inside. As Shelagh followed, she reeled from the fug and even though only dim light drifted in from the hallway, she clearly discerned its chaos. It was very small, with bookcases dominating two of the walls, one low, but broad and glass-fronted, the other tall and full of files, an armchair in front of it. Behind the door was a roll top desk. Piles of folders were stacked on it, a pewter tankard acting as a makeshift paperweight, scraps of paper littered the surface and an ashtray disgorging its heap of finished stubs sat precariously on the edge. The only uncluttered area was a corner where a small, framed photograph sat, but in the darkness she could not see what it was of.

She was temporarily blinded when Timothy switched on the light. "I'm not supposed to go in here," he began, adding quickly when he saw her stricken face, "but it'll be OK as I'm showing you. It's really messy, isn't it? Dad's always telling me off for not tidying my bedroom but this is much worse! I don't know what he uses it for. He says it's for paperwork, but mostly he does that in the sitting room. I think he just sits here and thinks. When Mummy was ill and after she died sometimes he came in here and cried. He thinks I don't know, but I do because I heard him. He sat in his car and stared out of the window when he was sad too. He did that a lot when you were in the sanatorium."

She felt the words like an electric shock. She knew herself to be loved by Patrick; he did not say it, but it showed in every action and eloquent silence. Yet the implications gleaming within Timothy's blunt remark were too precious to be easily processed. She turned away to the glass-fronted bookcase opposite the door. It was as meticulously organised as the desk was untidy and chaotic, with a series of medical textbooks and journals categorised and in alphabetical order. She instantly identified the journals as _The Lancet _and the _British Medical Journal. _Even had she not recognised them one or two stray copies peeked out from beneath the files on the on top, while once again there was a photograph: four young people, three men and a spectacularly beautiful woman. They were laughing at each other, the photograph capturing some private joke. On the left was her fiancé, holding up a pint glass to the camera; his face was unlined, the figure more athletic, but the expression was little changed and the resemblance to Timothy striking. The others were unknown. On the right was one of the men, round-faced, cheerful and with the woman's left arm draped along his shoulders. The other man was more bizarre: bespectacled, tall and thin, on his head he wore a deerstalker.

"That's Dad with Uncle Kenneth, Uncle David and Aunt Louisa when they were training to be doctors," said Timothy, identifying them one by one. "They're Dad's friends."

"That's a fairly unusual choice of hat!"

Timothy beamed. "That's Uncle Kenneth. He's Holmes," he explained. "Holmes, Watson and Lestrade. They were their nicknames at university."

This was a new insight into Patrick she had not anticipated. "Do you know why?"

Timothy nodded. "Uncle David. His surname is Watson, so he really is Dr. Watson. I suppose Auntie Louisa's Dr. Watson too. She's married to Uncle David. She used to be a doctor although she isn't now. Uncle David says it's because she's too busy talking, but it's really because they've got children. They both talk all the time though. Uncle David works at Great Ormond Street. Uncle Kenneth was Holmes. He's really clever, but quite strange. Auntie Louisa says he's eccentric and that Aunt Alice is the bravest person in the world. He's a heart surgeon and he loves trains and Uncle David says that he's the person we know who is mostly likely to end up on a stamp. Uncle Kenneth's got an amazing study, much better than this one, with a life sized skeleton you can dress up and a model heart which he can take apart and everything."

"So your dad was Lestrade?"

"Yes. Uncle David says Dad was the sensible one who kept them in order." He was about to add his private suspicion: that his father was the dull one, but Shelagh was staring at the photograph so wistfully that he closed his mouth and slipped away to another corner of the room.

She was scanning the unknown faces, their youth and hope and shared history. What she saw had help to mould Patrick into the man she loved, but she could not recall him ever mentioning their names. Dimly she remembered him once particularly requesting a specific consultant at Great Ormond Street when making a referral on the grounds that he was a friend, while years ago he had lent her a fascinating article, destined for publication in the _BMJ_, about a new practice called open heart surgery, as he had a preview copy from the author; but that was all. Was it his omission or her forgetfulness? She thought she recollected every word of every conversation they had had for many, many months. And then there was the camaraderie, the like of which she had never known. Her intended vocation separated her from her peers when she was training, her youth from her sisters once the vows were taken. She had never thought of herself as unhappy, but now she saw the loneliness of her life.

It was a sharp cry from Timothy which recalled her from her reverie. Joining him, diagonally across the room, she understood the cause. Just beyond the desk, there was a portion of the wall which was hidden from view at the door. It was covered in pictures by Timothy. From the improvement in the draughtsmanship they clearly covered some time, ranging from uncertain representations of people and places to more recognisable depictions of himself and his father.

"These are lovely. They're all by you, Timothy, aren't they?"

He nodded, staring. He pointed at two of the more incoherent ones, the images faded and the paper curling. "That's really old. So's that. He must've had them for ages." There was a tremor in his voice.

"Did you not know that he kept them?"

"No," he said quietly. "He puts them up in the sitting room for a bit. We took one down this morning when we were tidying," he explained. "I knew you wouldn't mind, but Dad said we should anyway."

But Shelagh did not answer. She was transfixed by a picture near the bottom.

It was two figures, a man with black hair and a woman with glasses, facing each other and smiling. The man's hands were on the woman's shoulders and appeared to be holding a long brown cape around her. Further back in the picture was a car, with a brown haired boy beaming through one of the windows, against a cloudy sky.

"When did you give him that one?" she finally asked.

The stare broadened. "I didn't. It was supposed to be for you, but I messed it up. The coat's all wonky, do you see? I was going to throw it out and start again, then Dad told me I ought to be in bed and he'd clear up for me." They were close, very close, and he was standing directly in front of her. Almost without thought she folded her arms around him, feeling him tense for a second in surprise, then relax back against her. "Do you like it? Should I have finished it?"

"Yes, I like it very much." It was almost a whisper.

With strange relief they headed up the stairs, quickly stopping at the bathroom on a landing half way up, to the rooms on the first floor.

"That's just the airing cupboard and it's boring. And that's the spare bedroom," began Timothy. He looked at her uncomfortably and pointed at the room on their right. "I don't know about going in there. That's Dad's room." It was not like the end of a sentence, more a trailing away, perhaps disconcerted by their previous invasion into his father's privacy, perhaps faintly realising that this room would eventually be hers too.

"I don't think we should, Timothy. You wouldn't like it if I went into your bedroom without your permission, would you?" He shook his head. "I think that bit of the tour should be with your father." Too much had been stripped naked for her within the study, too many nerve ends left exposed.

Timothy's relief was palpable and he headed to the next room along, a storage room, full of boxes, suitcases and little used junk. "We use this for stuff we don't use much. We've got a loft and it's quite big, but we usually put it here."

It was an odd use for the room. Although small, it was compactly designed and neatly painted and papered. It could have been a bedroom and, she thought, would have made a perfect nursery. At the thought, she started to ponder whether another quiet shadow lingered in Patrick's life.

"Have you always lived here, Timothy?"

"No. We moved here when I was four. I can't remember the other house much, except it was tiny and had a blue and red beaded doormat. Do you want to see my room now?"

She would not ask any further questions of either Timothy or Patrick, but she guessed the dreams which had initially been had for the little room and she was right.

The detritus of Timothy's energetic existence spilled across his room. She noted with amusement an unsubtle attempt to kick his cubs jumper under his bed, clearly not put away from yesterday, and his air of maturity when dismissing the battered teddy bear lurking in a corner as 'from when I was little'. There was a sizeable collection of books, ranging from the library loans they had borrowed together to older volumes inherited from Patrick. A meccano set and two model aeroplanes lay on another shelf, while there was a box containing a muddle of toys: a wooden boat, some soldiers, a football and an elderly cricket bat, small even for Timothy and with a makeshift grip fashioned from a grubby bandage. Timothy proudly introduced each treasure, sharing the stories of his little life. However, it was the corner with his desk which was most interesting. The desk itself was mundane enough, suffocated by an abandoned school bag and guarded by a family of paper frogs, but the wall above was dominated by a vast map of the world and a string of postcards. Most were from close to home: Margate, Brighton, Lymington. She instantly recognised the card she had sent from the sanatorium, carefully pinned up on the left. Others were from slightly further afield: the Lake District, York. However the jewels in the crown were on the right of the map: a collection of cards from overseas. With the exception of one picture of the Melbourne Cricket Ground from a university friend of his father who had emigrated, all were from the same source.

"Uncle Kenneth sent these," said Timothy. "He went to a conference in Switzerland last year by train and sent me a postcard from every country he went through. That one's from him too." It was of the Statue of Liberty. "He has a friend in New York and got him to send me the card after Mummy died to cheer me up. It's got a British stamp, because it got put in with a letter and then Uncle Kenneth had to post it to me, so it looks a bit funny, but it comes from New York originally, and that's what counts. It started my collection."

It was only after considerable probing that Timothy admitted that he needed to get ready for bed and, having collected pyjamas and dressing gown, headed to the bathroom. Making her own descent to prepare his Horlicks, she had reached the kitchen when she heard a door open behind her.

"You make him happy." Mrs. Harrison stood in her doorway. "Both of them. Who won the game?"

"We weren't able to finish it unfortunately."

"There've been so many Saturdays like that, when the doctor's been called out and little Timothy left with his puzzles or his books. But now he has you."

"Oh, I didn't really do anything. I just listened while he entertained me."

"That's enough, dear. Believe me. You're waiting until the doctor gets home?" Shelagh nodded. "It might be a very long time. He might be called out on another call."

"If he has to go to another one, I'll go. But I want to wait if I can." She remembered the face and the muttered words. She did not want Patrick to return once more to silence and loneliness.

Mrs. Harrison smiled. "I'll telephone your lodgings then, dear, and tell them you'll be late and to leave a key out."

Swept up in Timothy's tour of the house, she had forgotten. "I should have done that. I can do it."

"No, I'll do it. You worry about Timothy. Sometimes these things sound better from a grumpy old woman like me than a young lady like you!" Shelagh wondered whether Patrick had confided to the dignified woman his fear of compromising her reputation or whether she simply guessed how he would wish to protect her. Even without him, his care surrounded her.

Shelagh moved around the kitchen quietly, singing as she found the mugs and plates, but still overhearing the murmur from the telephone. She did not need to wonder how Mrs. Harrison knew the telephone number; she knew it would now be on the list for when calls came to the house. Bubbles rose and puckered as milk simmered in the pan.

"You have a lovely voice! That's something I'll get used to." Mrs. Harrison had returned, still smiling. "All done. They'll leave a key under the mat and pop a hot water bottle into your bed for you."

"Thank you."

"Not at all." She looked at her kindly. "There's a little piece of cake left in that tin and some ham and bread if you wanted to make a plate up for him for when he gets in." It was a hint, but charmingly made; and in that moment, both Shelagh and Meg Harrison knew that things would be alright.

"I will, thank you. I'm very pleased to have met you, Mrs. Harrison."

"So I am. Good night, dear."

Scrubbed and wet-haired, Timothy was no less irrepressible when he appeared for his supper, picking up the monologue about his room as if there had been no pause; and when he traipsed up to bed, although he claimed the right to put himself to bed, he still elicited a promise that she would come up and tuck him in in a quarter of an hour's time.

Fifteen minutes dragged heavily. Idleness sat awkwardly on her and it did not take long to clean up the dishes and prepare the plate for Patrick. She wished that she had her workbag with her. Her mind, starved for so long, was greedy for what the house provided abundantly, but her misgivings were grave. She knew he would not begrudge it, nonetheless she halted with her hand on the doorknob before she entered his study once more.

The latest issues of _The Lancet_ and the _BMJ _were quickly found and she was about to depart, having no wish to disturb the room's secrets more than she had already done. But now the photograph on the desk was in light and she started as she saw it, for she had been there when it was taken: newly qualified, newly arrived, a postulant, she had not yet met the doctor of whom such glowing things were said by Sister Julienne, nor would she that day. She was simply dispatching deliveries in response to the phone call requesting more supplies, any supplies, sterile dressings, penicillin, as the brave new world had exploded into existence beyond their wildest imagination. The edges of her postulant's habit flapped like sails as she cycled to the surgery, wondering if it was seemly to go so fast, then turned the corner and stopped, astounded. Outside the practice was a seemingly endless queue: the weak, the destitute and the needy, all patiently waiting. It was the 5th July, 1948, the first day of the National Health Service, and the man from the _Poplar Echo_ was there to capture it.

Here, at the heart of his work was his motivation, his desire to serve. She needed no insight into his heart for she knew it, but cradling the photograph, she held him in her hands. Carefully returning it to the desk, she sought the things she could do for him, yet felt how inconsequential they were; hanging up the clinical coat discarded on the armchair, emptying the overflowing wastepaper basket and ashtray into the kitchen bin, washing them, replacing them in the study, then walking upstairs to kiss his son goodnight, her own small acts of service.

It was well past eleven, later even than he had anticipated, when Patrick returned, stepping into silent darkness as he entered. He quietly called out her name, but there was no reply and hanging up his jacket, he saw her coat was gone. It was foolish to feel sad. As the hours had dragged on, he had hoped increasingly that she would take his earlier advice, call for a taxi and return to her lodgings. But the disappointment crushed him like lead. Too weary even to climb the stairs, he sat down to rest for a moment at the bottom of the staircase, wiping sleep from his eyes. And as he did, he saw a faint strip of light emitting at the bottom of the sitting room door.

There was no sound beyond the creak of the door as he opened it, no light except the standard lamp, but curled up in a corner of the settee, underneath her coat, was Shelagh. She was asleep.

For the first moments he could only watch, mesmerised by her peacefulness. She seemed to smile as she slept and her hair shone temptingly. Even tied up, it was still a burnished liquefaction. He had dreamt of her hair, fantasised about it, never imagining it would be so fair. When he first stood before her in the mist, he could not resist the lure of the forbidden fruit, so long hidden, touching the edges although trying to conceal his desire within a mundane professional gesture. It haloed a face now strangely bare. He had never seen her without her glasses before, apart from the few seconds after she stumbled at the fete, but they lay on top of a copy of _The Lancet _on the table, next to an open Bible. He glanced at the shelf in the alcove; there was a gap. Without them, the mouldings of her face were finer, more delicate, a new country.

He did not want to disturb her, but knew he should and crouched down, not wishing her to wake in a house that was still unfamiliar and find herself crowded by a figure she could not identify without her glasses. With one hand on one shoulder, the other on one knee, he gently shook her. "Shelagh. Sweetheart. Wake up."

Her face twitched as she dragged herself by slow degrees back to consciousness, squinting at the fuzzy image in front of her, aware of pressure on her knee and shoulder ceasing and the familiar form of her glasses pressed into one hand. "Patrick?" she asked.

"Yes. Wake up, sweetheart."

She blinked at him now, pushing the coat away and failing to stifle a yawn. "Hello."

"Greetings." His voice was teasing as he used her word.

"I meant to stay awake for you."

He hushed her. "It's very late. You're here. That's more than enough. I'll take you back now."

"Wait a minute first." She patted the settee, willing him to join her, watching the heaviness with which he pulled himself up, sat alongside her and fell back in exhaustion. "How was it?"

There was a long pause before he answered. "Difficult. Baby was already lost before I got there, I'd say before Nurse Miller did. Saved the mother. When she started to haemorrhage, I thought we'd lose her too. I wish I'd had you there."

"How did Cynthia do?"

His face crumpled. "I didn't mean that, not at all. She did very, very well. She's become such a good little nurse and her diagnosis was perfect."

"She'll cope?"

"I think so." He understood her meaning. "She knows there was nothing she could do. It won't be another Thomas Kelly. Shelagh, will you speak to her and reassure her?"

"Yes, of course, if you think it will help."

"It will. She looks up to you so much. I already told her to call you. You don't mind?"

"No. I'm more than happy to."

"Thank you. They need you." Diffidently he took her hand. "So do I. That was all I was saying." In his face she read a weariness which extended to his bones, but also something more; a famished, starving look. What he sought she knew, for she felt it herself. She knew he would not take what he wanted; his chivalry would baulk at even so mild an intimacy. Yet she wondered if something else stopped him: the memory of when he had once allowed his feelings full release and she had pulled away and turned her back. His love for her was shown in his restraint and it must be her who found the uncertain way for them both.

Tentatively, she reached out and stroked the dark hair, finding strands of silver within the black, which made her feel still more tender. Then slowly she pushed under the surface, feeling his hair wash over, around and between her fingers, drawing them down beyond his ear, until her fingertips trailed on skin and her palm lay on his cheek. His starving eyes were burning and a slight, quiet noise, caught between a breath and a sigh, stuttered from him. He pressed his own hand over hers, pulling her palm to his lips. They both knew it was the same hand with the now almost imperceptible scar, but this time she did not pull away.

In her eyes he thought he found the answers to questions he was too timid to ask. Taking her face in his hands, he lent forward and kissed her. At first it was delicate, little more than he had bestowed on her previously, their lips only fractionally more parted than before, lingering longer but no more. He felt the membrane of her upper lip stick against his, then release with an inaudible pop. He barely moved, afraid of shattering the glass world newly spun around them, but saw the blood coursing underneath the fragile surface of her skin, forming patterns like mother of pearl. Then he kissed her once more and deepened it, gradually, mildly, but steadily, every thought and feeling concentrated into expressing his delight in her. His hands held her to him, just as they had done at the moment of dizzying certainty when he knew that she was truly his, but now no coat barred his discovery of her neck, the escaped tendrils of hair, the smoothness of her skin. Yet there was a deeper joy, for her arms were around him, pulling him to her, he felt her smiling against his kiss and every cell of his body was alive as she responded, offering back the same mysterious mixture of desire, supplication and cherishing.

And then, as steadily as he had first deepened the kiss, he now began to lighten it. It was for her, even now not wishing to discomfort her, but not just her. Feelings he feared had died within him lived once more and he was awed by the discovery. With one last, fragile kiss, he pulled away to gaze at her, stunned by what had been awakened in them both, but grateful, almost relieved, to know that it was there, in her as well as himself. She was smiling, tiny abrasions on her lips where his stubble had grazed it and when he searched her eyes again, he found himself in their centre.

"Hello," he said, breaking into a smile at the foolishness of the remark.

Her laughter was like the chiming of ecstatic bells. "Hello, Patrick." She smiled into the indecision that lingered on his face and nestled against him, pulling his arm around her. "That was wonderful." She took his hand and kissed it. "It was perfect, my love." She had never used the endearment before, but it was so simple a truth that she could not understand why not.

There was no need for more; she had expressed it all. The rightness, his completion by her, astonished him. Beside him now, within his arms, their bodies fitted together with a neatness he could not have imagined. He did not understand his previous fears, so absurd they seemed now that the world had slid into a new, incandescent focus.

"Did you finish the game?"

"No. Not without you. Timothy gave me a tour of the house." She felt him swallow and heard the sharp breath, but he said nothing. She placed a hand upon his chest, guessing at his fear. "Not everywhere. He only showed me his bedroom and the little room upstairs, not yours."

When his reply came, it was shyness, not awkwardness. "Our room soon, Shelagh."

"Yes. That's why I want you to show me it."

His arms tightened around her and she looked up at him. "You can change things, Shelagh. There, and anywhere else. We could rearrange things or get Len Warren in. I want it to be your home too."

She nodded. "I know. It will be." Once more he made no answer, but she felt his chin rest on the top of her head. "We went into your study though. Do you mind?"

"No. There are a lot of books and journals," he waved towards the table, "you found them, which we'll both want to use. We could share it if you want. It's a little messy, I'm afraid."

"A little?" she scoffed. "I think it can stay your 'den' as Timothy put it!" As he ruefully grunted, Shelagh pieced together the question she wanted to ask. "Patrick, Timothy saw the pictures. It's lovely. Why do you hide them away?"

His voice was quiet. "I don't know. It wasn't deliberate. I suppose I didn't want to lose them. They're his childhood." She wondered for a moment if he would continue. "I keep missing parts of it. I let him down all the time."

"No, Patrick." She reached up to touch his face, but he took her hand in his own before she could.

"Shelagh, I do. Do you remember the time when he hurt his arm at school and turned up at the clinic and how I reacted?" His face was twisting. She remembered. "You knew exactly what to say to make him feel better and special. You're a natural with children. All I did was upset him."

"You were worried for him, Patrick. It was the middle of the clinic, which is always chaos, and suddenly he turned up injured and you didn't know what had happened. It was just reaction."

"Maybe. You saw his face, though. You heard what he said 'You're always at work'."

"Look at me, Patrick." Her authority was quiet, but it was there, and he obeyed her. "You were in the middle of a consultation, you rushed out of it and were by his side in seconds. I watched the two of you tonight with the shoes and board games and your private jokes. It's very precious. He's just a wee boy still, Patrick. He'll say you're always at work or that Uncle Kenneth has a more interesting study and so on, because he's isn't thinking. You've raised Timothy by yourself for two years and bore the brunt of the parenting for a good eighteen months before that and he's wonderful. Yes, I saw his face then, but I saw it tonight too when he saw those pictures and he loves you very, very much."

"Sometimes it's as though I'm ripped in two, between the practice and him." The words were emerging from somewhere deep within him, an uncertain confession. "I don't know how to put the pieces together again."

"You're not ripped in two. You're just exhausted, my love." Upon his lips she placed a soft, protracted kiss; a reassurance and a promise. "But you're not alone any more. We'll find a way."

"Thank you." They sat like sculptures in the lamplight, their arms wrapped around each other. The only gleam of brightness was the diamond steadily shining from her hand, while he listened to their breath murmur, feeling hers synchronise to the slowing rise and fall of his chest. Holding her, he sensed her own shattering tiredness, and regretfully knew what he must do. "I think I'd better take you back now, sweetheart, before you turn into a pumpkin, or I do." One more touch of her face and hair and he unfolded her from him to stand, his hand outstretched. "Or I get another call out. It should be Roger Preston on call tonight, but, – "

"I know." She took his hand and was still holding it when they reached the front door, only releasing him when he offered to help her on with her coat, smoothing its crushed panels.

"It's a pity that while Timothy was showing you the house, he didn't show you how to put the sitting room fire on."

"I worked it out Patrick, but I didn't like to. Not when it was just me."

"Penny pinching Scot," Patrick snorted, enjoying the face she pulled at him. "Did he really say that Ken had a more interesting study than mine?"

She chuckled. "That's the thing you remember? Yes, apparently so, with a skeleton you can dress up and a model heart! And is it true that he likes trains and 'Uncle David' and 'Aunt Louisa' never stop talking?"

Despite his fatigue, Patrick hooted with laughter. "That wonderful boy! Absolutely true. They never stop! At some stage, my darling, you'll be 'Louisa-d'!"

"You make it sound like an enema."

"'High, hot and a hell of a lot'?" He raised an eyebrow. "Believe me, there are similarities."

"And the trains? The full case notes please, Doctor Turner. Or," Coyly, surprised by her own boldness, she pulled him towards her by his lapels, "Inspector Lestrade?"

"Good grief, he's told you everything, hasn't he? Careful, sweetheart. It was almost Moriarty."

The last echo which died away in the hallway was a duet of laughter, as they closed the door and headed towards the car.


	6. Chapter 6

Two evenings later, in an affluent dining room in Hampstead, a middle-aged couple sipped coffee. Dry humour lingered around the man's mouth while his wife read the intriguing letter. She was elegantly dressed, her auburn hair beautifully coiffured, but her eyes were filled with a teenager's inquisitive delight and she seemed unconscious of pencil dust dirtying her hands. In the distance, they faintly registered a piano halted by the telephone's cry, but did not move.

"Is this possible?"

He shrugged. "It seems so. I hope so."

"But, has he – "

"No, not yet. It explains why he kept trying to call me last week though."

"He looked so ill the last time we saw him. He looked dreadful, almost as bad as - "

"After Elizabeth. I know." He remembered as keenly as she did: that terrible, terrible brittleness. "What was it he said? His colleague had TB or something?" He leant over and indicated a line in the opening paragraph. "But, darling, if that little detail means what I think it does, it can't have been easy."

She shook her head. "No. Poor poppet. He'll have been in misery." Then she started to twinkle. "Our proper, careful Patrick. Are you sure he never mentioned this to you? Hinted at it?"

"Of course not, Louisa. We couldn't possibly talk about such things!"

"What then? Only of politics and the efficacy of chlorambucil and who'll open the batting for Middlesex next summer? You silly men. Thank God I'm a woman, that's what I say," she added, more coquettish than critical.

He caught her tone instantly and lowered his spectacles on his nose, one eyebrow raised; their chamber piece was long played and by experts. "As I am, my dear, as I am."

Almost twenty years of marriage had not dulled their flirting with each other; the appearance of their teenage daughter, however, was a more potent disincentive.

"Dad. Telephone. It's Uncle Patrick."

With flurries of chuckling they departed the room, his cry of 'Bring the letter' causing a fresh peal of merriment. The young messenger, more grave than her parents, rolled her eyes in mute appeal to an invisible audience, muttering "Why are you two so embarrassing?" before returning to her sonata, while the couple hurried to the telephone, he sitting on a chair beside it, she hovering beside him.

"Hello? Patrick?"

"Hello, David."

"Patrick! Lovely finally to catch up with you. Sorry about last week. How are the two of you?"

"We're well, both of us."

"Good, good. You sound very well. Any particular reason?"

The response was a non-committal noise. "And you?"

"Fine, fine. Pootling along, nothing changes."

"And Louisa? And the children?"

"Same as ever. Louisa keeps me up to date with all the things I'm doing wrong." There was a faint thud and a high pitched squeal, as Louisa boxed her husband's ears, then chortled when he stuck his tongue out at her. "Katherine's life is impossible because nobody understands the trauma of being fifteen, Alex lives to play rugby, apart from when he's got broken bones or concussion from actually playing rugby, and Oliver's decided that school is pointless. I'm terribly pleased that you rang, actually. We need to speak to you about Christmas."

"Christmas?"

He smirked mischievously. "Louisa and I were hoping you and Timothy would spend Christmas with us. I know last year you wanted to be by yourselves and obviously we understood. But this year we can't bear the idea of the two of you, just by yourselves, rattling around in your house. Come for dinner or the day or stay over, it's no difficulty. The boys are more than happy to accommodate Timothy and we've easily got room for one person in the guest room."

There was a short and uncomfortable pause. "Thank you. That's very kind of you, David, but – "

"Do at least think it over," he interrupted. "Genuinely, it's no problem. We'd love to have you and squeezing in two people is hardly an imposition. Besides, Patrick, we know how appalling your cooking is. I prefer it if my godson didn't starve over Christmas. I have this terrible fear of you with nothing better than marmite and toast to go with your presents, unless you're hoping one of the nuns will feed you scraps from their table." He had further embroidery for this tale, how Patrick could change his mind up until the Saturday before Christmas, say, but by now Louisa was close to hysterics and he was in danger of doubling over with mirth and had to stop.

The discomfort had increased. "I – don't think so. There's – something happening at Christmas."

"Really?" said David, briefly covering the handset to laugh. "How intriguing."

"Well, yes." David Watson relented. Much as he enjoyed teasing his friend, his affection was greater and his curiosity rampant after the letter he had received that morning:

_Dear Uncle David,_

_I hope you are well. I am writing because Dad is getting married again. She used to be Sister Bernadette but now she is called Shelagh. (Shelagh is a Scottish spelling. She is Scottish.) She is a nurse, but also great fun and we won the three-legged race at the fair together last summer. Dad is really happy at the moment, which is good, but he keeps whistling which is quite annoying._

_I proposed to her for Dad and he asked me to be Best Man. Constable Noakes (Akela's husband) says that Best Man organises a party for the groom before the wedding called a stag do and does a speech at the reception _[carefully re-written over a smudgy spot] _with funny stories in it. I hope you can help me with this and give me advice. I think Dad would like to go to a play for his stag do. Is this is a good idea and can you come? I can't think of any other friends Dad has except Uncle Kenneth and he lives too far away. Also how do I get tickets? Also please can you and Auntie Louisa tell me some stories about Dad at university for the speech. I don't know any because I wasn't there. I am writing to Uncle Kenneth too. Finally do you know anything about what Dad did in the army in the war? I know he was in a place starting with 'D' in France, but don't know anything else. The wedding is the Saturday before Christmas, so please write back soon. _

_This is secret from Dad so please send your reply to Constable Noakes. He is helping me and will give me your letter. His name and address are: Constable Peter Noakes, Nonnatus House, Leyland Street, Poplar, E14. He and Akela live there at the moment as their house is being pulled down and she is a nurse._

_During half-term Dad and I finished the model Spitfire you gave me for my birthday. It is really great, so thank you very much. I am saving up my pocket money to buy a Lancaster bomber kit to go with it. During half term I earned some extra money for cleaning test tubes, petri dishes and pipetes _[as spelt by Timothy], _which was very boring._

_I hope Auntie Louisa, Katherine, Alex and Oliver are well._

_From Timothy  
_

"I'm sorry Patrick, go on. Is there something particular you wanted to speak about?"

"Yes, two things. One just came up today."

"Go on."

"I have a patient I need to refer." The change was instant. No humour, only attention and empathy, as Patrick recounted the everyday and ordinary tragedy: an impoverished family, the child who failed to thrive, familiar symptoms wasting a weak body.

A pen and pad materialised in David's hands, brought by Louisa. "Leukaemia?"

"I suspect so, yes."

"It sounds only too likely. What's the child's name?"

"Gracie Higgins. It will be terrible for them, David. They had a stillborn child last year and Mrs. Higgins has never stopped mourning. I haven't told them my full suspicions yet."

David winced. This second heartbreak was impossibly cruel. "What do they know?"

"That it's very serious and will involve complex treatment. If it is leukaemia, they'll need to be told by degrees. I'm happy to do it, of course, but it must be sensitively handled. I'm very sorry to ask, David, I know how busy you are, but could you personally monitor this?"

"Yes, of course. Refer her to me tomorrow."

"They are desperately poor. A bus to Great Ormond Street will stretch them."

"I'll arrange for them to be collected. We have some resources, not many. Perhaps we can help Mrs. Higgins stay with her daughter. What's the address?"

He quickly gave it. "Thank you."

"Not at all." It was impossible to return to teasing with the bald facts of a family's agony in front of him. Sobered, he spoke again. "There was something else, Patrick."

"Yes. Some news and a favour."

"Whatever it is, consider it done. Good news, I hope." He heard the throat being cleared.

"Yes. Very good, although something of a surprise. I'm getting married again, David."

Both men had imagined this moment. Patrick had feared being too abrupt, David had imagined stumbling, pause-filled explanations. But it came instead with astonished, quiet pride.

David faltered. He was remembering the terrible conversation they had the night that Elizabeth's diagnosis was confirmed. There had been the same quietness in the voice, but then racked with anguish. "Patrick, that's wonderful. Truly wonderful."

"Thank you."

His original intention had been to ask whether she was nurse or nun, those being the only women Patrick met, observing that it must be a nurse, given nuns were out of the question, or asking how the lady felt about bigamy, given Patrick was married to his practice. Haunted by the sudden memory, his wit seemed feeble and facetious now. There was time for humour in the years to come. "We had no idea you were courting someone. Who is she?"

"We weren't really courting. It's somewhat complicated, David." His explanation was unadorned: the long held friendship which had grown into affection, how his affection had evolved so slowly, like the pull of the tide, that he had not realised until it was too late to turn back. He did not mention the kiss upon her hand at the fete. In his kinder moments he still considered it ill-judged clumsiness, in his harsher ones, as unforgivably selfish and taking advantage of her. But through his simplicity, the confusion and pain which had underpinned that moment and so many others was clear. There was no interruption, for David Watson was biting his lip and when he glanced at his wife, whose head lay on his shoulder listening as intently, she was crying.

"It came to a head towards the end of the summer because she became ill." Even now it was distressing for Patrick to discuss, but his inflections told David the truth.

"The colleague who had TB. It was her?" There was a brief affirmation. "My God, Patrick. Again?" He regretted the words as soon as they were said, but their honesty and the clarity of his insight were an extraordinary comfort to Patrick.

"Well, quite. I wrote to her when she was in the sanatorium. It changes your perspective. Our perspective. Shelagh calls it her 'time in the wilderness'. And while she was there, she decided to leave the Order and," even down the telephone line, they heard him start to smile, "we're engaged."

David started to express his congratulations, in words as unembellished and heartfelt as Patrick's. However, a hand was waving in front of his face. Louisa, flicking the tears away from her eyes, was mouthing 'Give me the phone'.

"'It's Patrick, darling'," he began in an exaggerated stage whisper. "Patrick, Louisa's just walked in and wants a word. 'Wonderful news. Patrick's engaged.'"

"Patrick! How lovely! Tell me all about it." The note of surprise was dismally feigned.

While he had found the call emotional, it did not mean that Patrick had lost leave of his senses. "Hello, Louisa. Given you've probably been listening to most of the conversation, do I need to?" She laughed heartily. "You always were an appalling liar."

"Spoilsport!" But the tension eased and an old, familiar silliness re-emerged, back from when she was Miss Twynam and he was Mr. Turner and Professor Davies was berating them for talking too much instead of dissecting their cadaver. "Well, go on, poppet. What's she like?"

Now he could smile. "Her name's Shelagh, she's one of the nurses, she's Scottish."

"Know that already. Like you said, I've been listening for ten minutes. What else? How old is she?"

It was typical, thought Patrick acidly, that Louisa would be drawn, missile-like, to the greatest vulnerability. "A lot younger than me."

"How much? What age is she?"

"Thirty-two in the spring."

Louisa blew an unceremonious raspberry. "That's nothing. That's, what, about fifteen years? It's only marginally more than Ken and Alice."

"That's not nothing, Louisa. I do worry," he began.

"If it wasn't that, you'd worry about something else. You think you're being a dirty old man, don't you?" She continued without waiting for him to admit she was correct. "Well, don't. You're hardly a geriatric, Patrick, and she's not a child. If you want to marry her, I imagine she's fairly intelligent."

"Yes. She's extremely intelligent."

"Right, so she's a grown up, intelligent woman. Do her the credit of accepting she knows her own mind." There was no response and she wondered if she had gone too far. "Patrick? Are you there? Have I offended you?"

"Yes, still here. Not offended, just a touch of déjà vu." he said. "Shelagh said something very similar to me once herself."

Louisa laughed. "Good. I like her already. Now, something more interesting."

"She's an excellent practitioner, could have been a doctor herself if she'd wanted."

There was a sigh. "That's useful if I were going to employ her, but that's not really what we're aiming for. She's going to be your wife, I'd like to be her friend. So, something real please."

For the first time since the call began, he fully relaxed. He remembered how he described them to Shelagh while driving to her lodgings; David, honourable and talented and self-deprecating, as only a man called 'Dr. Watson' could be, his former flatmate, his closest friend; and then Louisa: "Like a hornet. The exasperating little sister I never really wanted anyway. She'll interrogate me into submission about you and then it'll be your turn." Shelagh had chuckled, gravely observing it was better to be forewarned. Now this scene was playing exactly as he had anticipated.

But how could he describe Shelagh truly, even to those who understood him best? He hardly understood himself how she stimulated, stirred and mended him. A tensile mind, robust professionalism, as fine a nurse as he knew; yet this was to make an automaton of her, losing the empathy so integral to her ability. Her beauty was fresh and unflaunting, but he did not know whether it was from her flesh or the loving integrity shining through it. Her gift for love and goodness seemed boundless, almost making him believe in God once more, yet she was no ethereal being. He knew now of her burgeoning passion, her human needs as well as her humanity, and he had always loved the effervescent bubbles of her humour. He remembered one joke she made about why Conchita Warren might be more exciting about than a pair of enemy binoculars, a more ribald version of one she made at the nurses' lunch table. From any other person it could have been dubious, even lewd, yet from her was delightful and naughty and utterly beguiling. She entranced him as a mystery, but he knew and was known by her.

"Come on. I'm still waiting. What's she like?"

"A miracle."

His attempts to encapsulate her seemed woefully inadequate to him; he only knew that he was blessed. But away to the north-west, on the other side of London, Louisa Watson's smile was radiant, while her husband's eyes were filling with tears. Both were struggling when he finished, but Louisa recovered first. "And what does Timothy think?"

"He adores her. She's wonderful with him."

"Good," she said, composure almost regained. "I want to meet her."

His groan was comically exaggerated. "Must you?" But he gave her the number and when he spoke he was serious once more. "Don't frighten her off, Louisa, please. May I have David again, please? I have a favour to ask of him."

"I'll play nice, Patrick, I promise. It's lovely, truly." She wanted to say more, but was too full of feeling to. "Here he is."

"What's the favour?"

"It's about Best Man. We've asked Timothy. It's as much about him as it is about us and we both want him to be part of the ceremony."

"That makes perfect sense. It's an excellent decision. What do you need me to do?"

"Would you mind doing the formalities at the reception? I've not mentioned that side of it to Timothy, he's far too young and it's not the important thing. It will be fairly low key, but I suppose we must have speeches of some sort. I'm sorry, I realise I'm asking you to do the worst part."

David could not keep his face straight, but somehow kept it from his voice. "Not at all. I promise that the formalities will run beautifully and you'll have a Best Man's speech to be proud of."

"Thank you, David. For everything."

"Of course." His voice tightened. "I really am very, very pleased, Patrick. We both are."

"I know."

"Be in touch."

"I will. Love to the boys. It was lovely talking to Katherine earlier."

"The same to Timothy. Tell him I'll be in touch soon. Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

As the receiver was put down they turned to each other, in tearful elation, unsure whether to cry or cry out in joy as they learnt of the cure which they had feared was impossible and discovered the great act of healing which had now taken place.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thank you to everyone who has reviewed this - the encouragement is so kind and quite ovewhelming! Sorry it's taken a while to get these chapters posted. I realised after posting Chapter 6 that I'd missed out two things in Timothy's letter which set up the next few chapters because I'd rushed it [Chapter 6 is now edited and corrected] and I didn't want to do it again! Anyway, here is the next instalment, which - finally - explains the title...  
**

A sharp stink of fish and oil and human sweat oozed into the air at East India Docks Road, carrying its stench through gritty air until the ground itself reeked. But Timothy was not there, though his schoolbag trailed over the gravel, the jarring scuffs juddering up his arm. He was far away to the north and long ages ago, shivering on the wall, homesick, staring at the bleak hills from which the evil might come. Waiting, waiting.

When they studied the Romans in History, they had learnt of an unstoppable force carving through the country with long straight roads until stopped by the brutal wilds of Northumbria, where they made their northern frontier. For most of his peers it was relentless battle gore which inspired the composition they wrote that afternoon: pretending they were Roman soldiers in Britannia and describing their experiences. It had been Timothy's first intention until Miss Norris suggested he challenge himself and he found himself on the far edge of the empire, a humble foot-soldier on night patrol, keeping watch for barbarians who might or might not lurk in the dark. How lost and confused he would have been, how tired with waiting; and, above all, thought Timothy, how extraordinarily bored. Was all war like that, he wondered? Had his father waited in darkness through heavy hours of nothing? Or was this simply what adult life was like?

Akela had described them as plotting strategies like spies, their organisation like soldiers. He had written his letters by torchlight that night and slipped them into the postbox on Saturday morning while running an errand for Mrs. Harrison. Throughout that day, so wonderful in its simplicity, the thought of his journeying letters burned brightly. But Sunday rose with a grey, sucking chill and now he waited for news which did not arrive, stuck in an endless Christmas Eve, uncertain what to do until it did. The dull sameness of life – Sunday School with Mrs. Harrison, homework and violin practice, school - was so much more dismal.

And yet, he knew that something had happened on the Saturday night after he went to bed. When he blearily wandered into Sunday breakfast, his father had already finished and was picking up his briefcase, penance for the hours they had had yesterday. Timothy had expected nothing less and made no complaint as they exchanged half-attended greetings, vaguely aware of being thanked for taking such good care of Shelagh. Then his father paused and came back, perching on the edge of the chair next to him and fidgeting before he spoke.

"I keep your pictures because they're by you. They're very precious to me." He leaned forward and instead of the hair ruffle which Timothy had begun to jerk away from, Patrick put his hand around the back of Timothy's head, pulled it towards him and kissed his brow, gently stroking the back of his head with his thumb as he did so. As abruptly as he had paused before, he then stood up, smiled from the doorway, and left.

On Tuesday evening he had not heard his father arrive home. He was changing out of clothes he had showered with flour while baking with Shelagh, who had come to make a dinner which, if not quite up to Mrs. Harrison's standard, was more recognisably food than they were used to on Tuesdays. He saw the briefcase in the hall and pottered to the kitchen, wondering if that was where they were, it seemed so silent, where he saw them. He had seen his father kiss her before and cheerfully groaned at the tell-tale change of head position, yet this closed eyed embrace stalled him. Her arms were around his father's neck, one hand slowly losing itself in his hair, his hands rested on her waist, one on either side, the pressure from his splayed fingers puckering her blouse. It was like a moment from a film, except they were so quiet and still. He wondered if he should be embarrassed, even disgusted. He giggled at couples in the street with his friends, making smooching noises at teddy boys and lip-sticked girls who walked past his school. But he only felt ignorant, unnerved by this tranquil intensity, which perhaps could never be understood by a watcher. He tiptoed back to the hall, from where he yelled and clattered his way to them, now finding them separated and predictable, ready for an evening no different from any other. The next morning, when his casual observation that according to the Romans Shelagh was a barbarian resulted in Patrick spraying tea all over the breakfast table and asking if he could please be present when Timothy told _her_ that, he wondered if he had mistaken the minute shifts of earth under his feet. But he knew he had not and that something was changed; but around him, not to him.

Someone was calling his name.

He did not recognise the voice and even when he identified the speaker, it was some moments before he recalled the name Bill Mitchell. Picking up his schoolbag, Timothy quickened his pace. The constable shook his head, gesturing instead to the middle of the nearby intersection, where Peter Noakes was directing traffic and had been trying somehow, while unable either to wave or shout, to catch Timothy's eye for the previous three minutes. Now that he had it, those eyes were bright and questioning. Peter smiled and started to nod.

Weaving around bicycles, regardless of Peter shouting out to be careful, Timothy bounded into the intersection. "Constable Noakes, have you - ? Is there - ?" he started.

"Careful, Timothy! Stand here. You didn't half make it hard to get your attention a minute ago! You were a million miles away!"

"Sorry. I was imagining I was a soldier on Hadrian's Wall."

What was it about Timothy Turner which so frequently made him want to laugh, wondered Peter? Were small boys always so funny? He wondered if Freddie would make similarly solemn proclamations in a decade's time. There were worse boys to model himself on. "That's unusual," he began, a great ball of laughter spinning in his belly. "I'd try coming back to twentieth century London, Timothy."

"Why?" asked Timothy.

"Well, firstly because we're in the middle of intersection and I don't think the Romans worried much about lorries turning out of the docks. And," despite the clamour in the street, he lowered his voice to whisper into the inquisitive face, "a couple of letters arrived for you this morning." He did not mention the third letter, the one to him tucked away in the same envelope as Timothy's, which had lingered in his mind all day and still perturbed him now.

"Have you got them?"

"Akela does." Peter watched as joy animated the boy's face. "Calm down! Don't rush off yet!" Raising his hand, he brought the vehicles to purring halts and directed the pedestrians across, shaking his head as Timothy tore away.

The last few days had been a slingshot pulling him backwards; he thought he had run to Nonnatus House last Friday, but now he flew. Released, he sprinted, wriggling and twisting around trudging labourers, jinking through groups of playing children and women with prams, finding tiny gaps into side streets, up to Nonnatus House, hopping from one foot to the other until Jane opened the door and directed him, not to the parlour, but the kitchen, into which he breathlessly burst, exclaiming as he entered, "Akela, Akela, have you got my letters?" and stopping, aghast.

"What on earth are you doing here, Timothy?" asked Shelagh.

She was standing on a chair in the middle of the room, with Akela holding a tape measure around her waist and calling out a number to Nurse Miller, who sat at the table with a notepad and pencil.

He tried to reply, but could only gasp and heave as shock crawled over him; and now exertion made his body turn traitor. His blood screamed for oxygen and the overworked lungs pounded, while a sharp stabbing pain attacked his side. He began gulping for air, his panting became coughing and spluttering, his eyes streamed.

"Oh dear! Let's be looking at you!" said Shelagh. Her tone was cheerfully calm, but she dismounted the chair very fast to seat him upon it and steadily pat his back. "How's that?" Still breathless, he leaned over so his red face touched his knees and he had to look up to take the glass of water Nurse Miller brought. Still Shelagh slowly rubbed his back, crouching beside him now and smoothing back his sweaty hair. "Little sips, just wee ones. There you go. Better?" He nodded and she squeezed his knee. "So, what _are_ you doing here? Not that it's not nice to see you!"

Frantically, he wondered how he could extricate himself. There would be some story he could fudge which she would believe and he turned to her. She was smiling at him, smiling with a special look, of mischief and affection and collusion. He knew she kept it only for him; and his plots and schemes began to crumble. As she twinkled at him, he realised that now he could no more lie to her than he could to his father. "I – I," He looked around wildly, for a moment afraid he might start crying. "I can't tell you." In the fleeting moment before he looked down he saw her expression alter and he looked away faster, desperate in case the surprise dissolved into hurt.

However he had an ally. "It's a marvellous thing, actually. Timothy's working on a special sort of entertainment badge at the moment."

Shelagh looked from Timothy to Chummy, and back. "This is for Cubs?"

"We talked about it during Cubs last Friday," said Timothy awkwardly. It was not a lie, yet he wanted to squirm underneath the warm hand still resting on his knee.

"Is it for Christmas? For the pantomime?"

Timothy started to mumble 'Around Christmas' but could not finish and was rescued once more by Chummy. "It's a performance that Timothy is going to be giving, quite a tricky one. It involves being extra specially prepared and having to do research. Some of the research arrived today. He's been terribly impressive really. Quite puts nativity plays and pantomimes to shame." Timothy looked up in gratitude; warm reassurance awaited for him. "I'll go and get it."

As Chummy left, Cynthia discreetly slipped away and Shelagh stood to cut him a slice of the Victorian sponge they had been sharing before he arrived. She was only looking at him sidelong when she asked her question, although she watched him closely. "Is it a surprise for Dad, Timothy?"

Relief was like letting go after holding his breath too long. He nodded, grinning as he took the cake and she sat beside him.

Her tone was sweet when she spoke, the corners of her mouth maybe pondering a grin in return, yet the penetrating blue eyes were serious and urgent. "Is it one you're sure he'll like? "

He paused in the middle of his mouthful. "I think so," he said, then deliberated. "If you really want, I can tell you what it is. I don't really mind."

Again and again her mind had rattled over Patrick's raw confessions about Timothy, lost at how to navigate a route through the layers of guilt and drain away that terrible sense of inadequacy. _I know you so little, _that was what she had said. Now she started to know him, only piecing together slowly the brokenness and anxiety festering below his strength, finding her way to his core and the depths and swells of intellect, purpose, integrity and love; instinct told her his needs faster than her mind did. Surging within her was a longing to protect him, to stand between him and pain, even from tiny stings which clumsiness might initially cause but brooding would nurture. Yet what protection from this could he need? She had never known Timothy to do anything cruel or unkind; she could not imagine the surprise to be motivated by anything but love. The old familiar voice of wisdom rose in her mind: _Let us see what love can do_.

And Timothy; was he tantalising her with the secret because he wanted to share it or was it weary resignation after she wrecked his moment of excitement? Which did he need: to have her share this confidence or to know she trusted him, even with the person they both loved most? Yet he needed to be protected too; from a hundred vulnerabilities and the grazes caused by carelessness. For a brief moment, she wondered what Elizabeth would have done.

Instead of answering, she questioned him once more. "Does Akela know all about it?"

"Yes. And Constable Noakes."

Slowly Shelagh gave her answer, discovering it as the words emerged. "I think you'd better not tell me too then, Timothy. It's your secret and I'm sure it's going to be absolutely lovely and I'd probably give it away. I'm not very good at keeping secrets from your dad."

"Did you ever try?"

"Once." She looked down at her hands, at a naked finger which had worn a ring a long, long time. "But he still worked it out in the end. Anyway," she brightened, "let's talk about more important things: how was your Maths test?"

"Easy. I forgot you put dots above recurring numbers, but I put five of the number down in those questions and wrote 'it keeps going' so she'll know I get it. I didn't like the stuff on multiplying fractions. Do you think that'll be in the Eleven Plus?"

They were watched from the doorway as Timothy told of his day. "It's beautiful, isn't it?" whispered Cynthia. "She makes it look so simple."

"Yes," said Chummy. "Pity she can't give classes on it, like she used to on breech births and performing an external version."

There was another observer in another doorway, watching even more intensely from her office, but nobody saw her strange, ambiguous expression or heard her habit's quiet swish as she turned away.

His chronicles of school exhausted, Timothy changed tack. "Why were you standing on a chair?"

Suddenly she looked shy and her laugh was nervous as she glanced at the women in the doorway, welcoming them back in. "I have a little secret too, Timothy, although I don't mind sharing mine. I was having my measurements taken. Akela is making my wedding dress."

Timothy scanned the room in growing alarm. The only cloth he could see was some very ugly brown cotton on a chair. On the table, next to the cake, was something that looked a little like a bit of a sleeve, but made from newspaper. "Out of what?"

Noticing the direction of his gaze, all three women laughed. "Not out of newspaper, Timothy!" said Cythnia, smiling at Shelagh, both remembering the smooth, fine touch of the ivory silk which Jenny had found and which now lay in Trixie's wardrobe, waiting to be transformed.

"No, we couldn't have her saying her vows with a speech by Mr. Macmillan all over the bodice," said Chummy. "Don't worry, we'll have her as pretty as a princess for your father."

In her hand lay his letters.

After bestowing a rather sweaty goodbye hug on Shelagh, he received his prize, sharing a 'quick confabulation' about their earlier ruse on the way to the door.

"Thank you for making it all alright earlier," he said. "I don't think I should come here again to get anything, should I?"

"No," she agreed. "it's probably a little too much running of the old gauntlet. Why don't we hand on any letters that arrive to Nurse Miller and she can give them to you at rehearsals for _Dick Whittington_?" she suggested. "She won't ask any questions, I promise."

"Alright." He was desperate to start reading, however there was one last question he wanted to ask, even though he feared the answer. "Akela, if the speech is really good, _can _I get a special entertainer badge? I haven't got an Entertainer badge because I got my Musician badge for the nativity play and we didn't get badges for _Robin Hood _because everyone else got them for the nativity and they forgot," he explained, adding wistfully, "I suppose you can't really make one up though."

She was very gentle when she replied. "I think Baden-Powell would understand," she said, "and I rather think he would approve. We'll make a new badge, the Official Entertainment badge. Make sure you leave room on your jumper! And we'll see you at little Fred's christening at the weekend?" He nodded energetically. "Super."

He knew he should go home to read the letters, if only to limit the chance of another mishap without Akela there to intervene. But too much excitement bubbled within him. When he was still only two streets from Nonnatus House, he detoured into the porch of an old warehouse, abandoned since the war, where he had once hidden during a game of hide and seek and sat on the steps to examine his mail. There were two communications. The first was a postcard of the Clifton Suspension Bridge, with a brief, neat message on the back. The second was a fat letter, two pages long with two postscripts, one in different handwriting, followed by another page where its single paragraph was headed by a dramatic query.

He read the postcard first: _Dear Timothy, I got your letter – very good news. I have what you need (and plenty of it). Will write fully over the weekend. Hope this is worthy of the wall. The bridge was built by Brunel who built the Great Western Railway. Uncle Kenneth_

Timothy grinned. Uncle Kenneth understood discretion as much as he did collecting things and almost as much as he liked telling him about trains. He then began the letter.

_Dear Timothy,_

_It was lovely to receive your letter and hear your exciting news. Dad actually telephoned us the same day and thanks to your letter I enjoyed myself by asking a few questions I knew the answers to! Auntie Louisa and I are delighted you like Shelagh so much. Your father has made an excellent decision in making you Best Man, you will be splendid and I would be honoured to help you. _

_As regards the stag party, personally I think your dad would be as happy spending an evening with you at home, getting his usual richly deserved punishment at Monopoly. However, your theatre idea is much more imaginative. Why don't I help arrange this for you? It is quite easy for me as there are so many theatres near my hospital. I could find out 'what's on' and provide a list of plays for you to choose from, then buy the tickets and book a table for dinner. _

_We telephoned Uncle Kenneth after receiving your letter to discuss our favourite stories about your father. He is going to write them up, as there is a particularly funny one he wants to tell about Dad driving (more accurately, crashing) when the three of us were on holiday once. (I have popped one story in here though, to get you started.) Very luckily, he has a conference in London in the first week of December. If you held the stag party that weekend, he could come too - if you can cope with three boring old doctors like us! (I promise not to talk about disgusting things at dinner!) Uncle Kenneth could maybe give you hints for writing the speech, as he delivers lots of them and is, of course, the person we know who is most likely to end up on a stamp!_

_I know little about Dad's war experiences. We haven't discussed it much and were in different sections of the forces. (The RAF is definitely better!) I want you to think very, very carefully about investigating this and to promise me you will think about it for at least a week before doing anything __and__ that you will discuss it with Constable Noakes first. Although he was extremely brave and many men owe their lives to him, Dad found the war very hard. There were a lot of suffering people he could not cure or help and you know how upset that makes him. You are right that he was at a place starting with 'D' though. It was called Dunkirk. I know that you will think carefully and I am sure you will make sensible decisions._

_I hope that these ideas help a little and I will write soon with some play suggestions. If there is anything else I can do, let me know, and make sure you say thanks to Constable Noakes. Auntie Louisa sends her love. She is very excited about meeting Shelagh next week. Alex and Oliver hope you will visit soon too (and bring your Spitfire). They need reinforcements against Katherine!_

_Love from_

_Uncle David_

Delight grew steadily as he read. The stag do was as good as arranged, with Uncle Kenneth there too. Better still was the place starting with 'D'; now named with a name he vaguely knew. With some satisfaction, he turned to the postscripts.

_PS Auntie Louisa here. One more thing for your list of Best Man's jobs: you MUST make sure Dad gets a new suit. He __cannot__ get married in some tatty thing he uses for work. I'm sure he won't want the whole tailcoat clobber, but get him to go a tailor and get something that fits. I'm happy to take him shopping if you don't want to. Whatever you do, __DO NOT LET HIM PICK HIS OWN TIE__. They are always awful. Lots of love, Auntie Louisa_

_PPS Uncle David again. Whatever you do, do not force your father to go shopping with Auntie Louisa. He is a good man and he does not deserve it. It will be fine if he gets a decent dark suit – as long as he remembers to hang it up for once! Uncle David _

Usually Timothy found Uncle David and Auntie Louisa's brand of bickering very funny, although he wasn't sure he would want to live with it every day, but this latest spat left him in a profound gloom. Given his father frequently went to work wearing odd socks and on one particularly unfortunate occasion had seized a tie he saw on the breakfast table as he rushed to work, not realising it was Timothy's school tie, leaving Timothy having to explain to Mrs. Fletcher why his neckwear that day declared him a graduate of the St. Thomas's Hospital Medical School, University of London, Timothy did accept there was a fairly high likelihood of his father turning up to his wedding inappropriately dressed unless somebody took him in hand. Why that somebody had to be him, though, seemed most brutal. Sorting out his father's wardrobe was vastly beyond the call of duty, even if he could see what was wrong with the clothes in the first place, which he could not. He would rather barber a hedgehog. He wondered if it was cowardly to accept Auntie Louisa's offer of help: she had taken him shopping for his school uniform in August and, despite what Uncle David said, it had not been that dreadful, although, admittedly, his chief memory of the day was playing indoor hockey with Alex and Oliver in their hall after shopping was safely over, using rolled up copies of _The Times_ as sticks and a pair of socks for the ball. With a heavy sigh, he mentally added this to his list of duties and turned to the letter's extra page.

_Patrick Turner – Expert Midwife?_

_The first birth your father attended was when he was a student, along with myself and our friend, Tom Anderson. All began well. Your father got the contractions started, reassured the mother, impressed the midwife training us, and generally showed the two of us up no end. Then he prepared to help with the delivery. By this stage the baby's head was crowning (starting to come out). Dad took one look – and promptly passed out, knocking over a table of sterilised instruments as he fell. Nurse Bell was not impressed. She became even more furious when Tom and I threw a jug of water, which was supposed to be for helping with the birth, over him. Your father came round fairly quickly and even helped out with the last stage of the delivery, but his early good impressions were well and truly gone. Nurse Bell never liked us much after that. Dad claimed he'd been feeling ill because of the steak pie he'd had for lunch, but I had the same pie and I felt fine. Thankfully, I understand Dad is rather better at delivering babies nowadays._

Timothy knit his brows. His father with a jug of water thrown over him was certainly funny and he vividly imagined him being told off by a grumpy nurse, who had somehow acquired the face of Sister Evangelina. Nonetheless, something told him he was skirting around the edges of the real joke. Applying the same rules he did to comprehensions at school, he re-read and re-read the anecdote, identifying the phrase which he thought was the key, wondering how he could find out its meaning.

Fortune, however, had now decided she was on Timothy's side, perhaps feeling guilty for what had happened earlier at Nonnatus House. A scooter had been purposefully travelling down the road when its rider saw a familiar face with a strained expression in a most unfamiliar and, in Trixie Franklin's opinion, most unsuitable venue and pulled over to investigate.

"Hello Timothy! Are you pretending to be Christopher Robin?" she said, observing his pose on the steps.

"No," he replied, quickly standing up and scornful at the implication he should have a teddy bear with him. "I'm reading a letter. Nurse Franklin, if you've 'passed out' what does that mean?"

"You're drunk, usually," she remarked caustically.

Once, Timothy had sailed a much loved toy boat down a rapidly flowing river while on holiday. The little craft struggled against a wind that was too sharp and an unpredictable current, sliding and spinning until overwhelmed by the fight. The battered mast splintered and it capsized. Now he knew what it was to be shattered like the boat. People changed as they aged, he knew that; it was hard to imagine Dad with a nickname these days. He also knew his father was not averse to alcohol: the whisky decanter and occasional bottle of wine or beer at dinner testified to that. But his father drunk was inconceivable. He had once seen a man stumble into a gutter, stinking, and vomit over himself. He had gaped, too disgusted to be scared, while his mother moved him to her other side, telling him that the man drank, a kind of illness. But he knew his father did not feel the same about this illness as he did about others he treated. He had overheard him railing against it in fury more than once, how it made men use women as punchbags and turned them into animals, how it wrecked lives, destroyed families and condemned children before they were born. To know his father had been guilty of this filthy crime and, above all, at work, where people needed him so much, was to discover that water was poison and air was pitch.

He could not believe it. He would not. The foundation stone of Timothy's life was a simple truth: his father was a good man. It sustained him through the loneliness when forced to share his father with patients and was his confidence for the future. Two years ago he had visited Mummy in hospital the day before she came home for the last time; Dad was at work, or perhaps it was Christmas shopping, and Granny Parker took him. The nurses for once let him clamber onto her bed, to be cuddled within a grip so wasted his was stronger, while she whispered words he would never forget: he shouldn't be afraid because he would have Daddy and he was the best man she'd ever known. He would always protect him and keep him safe, as the one thing Daddy loved more than helping patients was his family. He could not believe his mother's judgment had been so wrong, or that Uncle David would think this was funny. And he would not believe his father capable of such a thing. Clenching his fists, crumpling the letter within it, he turned back to Trixie. "Are you sure, Nurse Franklin? Isn't there anything else 'passed out' ever means?"

"Oh, that's not the meaning of 'passed out'," she replied, adding corrosively, "although it's the usual cause, round here at any rate. 'Passed out' just means you've fainted."

Trixie Franklin was rarely disconcerted. Lunatic patients, their abusive relatives and temperamental scooters were dispatched without turning a single immaculate hair. However, seeing the transformation of Timothy Turner's distraught face, his jaw subsiding to his knees as he stared at her, re-read part of the letter in his lap and then collapsed into fits of uncontrollable, hysterical, whooping laughter which lasted long after he had hiccupped his thanks and disappeared, was one of the few moments in her life which came close to it.

"Peculiar boy," thought Trixie.


	8. Chapter 8

"I feel terrible sitting around when you're so desperately short staffed and all working so hard. I asked Sister Julienne if I could assist in some way, perhaps working with Jane, but she wouldn't countenance it. And even if she did," she said, suddenly fascinated by the paper pattern for an arm of a dress which lay on the table, before finishing rather weakly, "someone else wouldn't."

Cynthia and Chummy laughed. "Gosh, Sister Julienne and Dr. Turner, a terrifying combination. Far more scary even than Sister Evangelina," remarked Chummy.

"I think it's lovely he's so protective of you," said Cynthia. "He smiles every time your name's mentioned." Then she told them what had happened at the end of Tuesday's clinic. Starting to fold the screens away, Trixie had heard it first and gleefully shushed them until they all did: someone in the kitchen whistling Lillibulero. She had beckoned them over to a spot where you could see without being seen, to watch Dr. Turner combing his hair and adjusting his tie in a reflection in the window. The whistling momentarily stopped when he bent over to pick something up, resuming as he put on his coat and exited, now holding a delicate bunch of freesias, which had sat unnoticed in cold water underneath the sink for the previous four hours, along with his briefcase.

"Going to see your lovely fiancée, Dr. Turner?" asked Trixie, playfully. Cynthia had mumbled 'Don't', expecting him to be embarrassed, even to blush. But he hadn't. He turned unabashed, the smile making him appear years younger, and replied, "Yes. Goodnight, ladies."

Cynthia continued kindly. "He wants to take care of you and we do too. It was horrible when you were in the sanitorium. You have to rest and convalesce properly, we understand that. We're just happy you're coming back in January." She looked terribly tired, Shelagh thought, although Cynthia dismissed it as a taxing night shift a few hours before, saying she was glad to have the afternoon off. "And with you doing all this reading, you'll be able to teach us so much! It will be like old times."

"I think I've read an entire year's editions of _The Lancet _and the _BMJ _in a week," she admitted, "which has been rather nice." She had revelled in the study, every time she saw Patrick telling him some detail she had gleaned of pioneering treatments or articles she thought he would want to read, when – if – he ever found the time, and captivating Cynthia and Chummy by describing the new Riker inhaler which was revolutionising asthma treatment in America. A stash of avidly taken notes rose each day as she absorbed the articles, enthralled, taking notes on them all; all except the research which arrested her the most and chilled her, the start of a slowly rolling avalanche linking cancer with smoking.

"And become a lady who lunches!" They had both been fascinated by the little she told them of her telephone conversation with Louisa Watson, a call which she and Patrick realised on exchanging notes had taken place within ten minutes of his conversation with them ending.

The cosy afternoon tea at Nonnatus House had been delightful, however Shelagh sighed as she walked back to her lodgings: the day had been difficult, even without the incident with Timothy. Cynthia, as ever, had noticed, quietly asking if was the dress and whether she would prefer to select one herself, rather than leaving it in their hands, but had felt bullied by Trixie, who thought the idea inspired. She could honestly assure her that it was not: uneasy with shopping, uncertain about fashion, embarrassed to be asked what she wanted as a wedding gift, she had been only too happy to let the five of them give her her dress, trusting in Chummy's skill, Jane's modesty, Cynthia's sensitivity, Trixie's kindness and Jenny's impeccable taste. Although the beauty of the cloth, the ravishing silk and an old filigree lace, was far removed from her image of herself, it was mesmeric, not overwhelming.

It was earlier conversations which had unnerved her, making the great changes rise up in front of her like cliffs. She had cosseted little Freddie while Chummy took her through the process for changing her nurse's registration from her maiden to her married name, which documents needed to be sent away and when, patting away the implicit question when Chummy recalled the first time she had tried her married signature. They had laughed as Chummy described its drunken spider's look and the consequence of repeatedly practising it in the days leading up to the wedding: unconsciously she had started writing 'Noakes' when she was signing the register, until Peter had nudged her, and she had to turn 'Noa' into an barely legible 'For'. But there was something more Shelagh contemplated during this anecdote, beyond humour or paperwork: how an identity only just reclaimed must change once more; and something further still, a memory she was too ashamed to admit. Shelagh had tried writing her married signature too, once. She had just torn up a half-written letter, her third attempt to reply to the mute appeals within his letters to her, too clear to be dismissed as concerned friendship, too veiled for her to divulge the truth. She had stood and stared out at the garden where she had walked with Sister Julienne, begging her to share her strength, then circled the room as she ran her fingers over his signature, before quickly sitting down once more and brazenly writing two words – Shelagh Turner – then was so horrified she ripped off the page, destroyed it and wrote to Timothy instead.

Before her tea with Cynthia and Chummy had been the fruitless discussion with Sister Julienne. She had come with two requests, the first about the possibility of returning to work earlier than the new year, even if it was simply to sterilise equipment or answer the telephone. It was not that she was not busy arranging the logistics of her wedding and spending time with Patrick and Timothy, while she filled her days with study and with prayer. The old routine of offices shaped her still, now infused with peace and purpose as she asked Him to prepare her for the life which she believed was His will. Yet the self-focus of this introspection disturbed her and each day when she saw the towering levels of human need in the streets, she felt guilt. Her request had been rebuffed, kindly, but so firmly and with what seemed like gracious, generous, insurmountable distance. She remembered the words once uttered across that desk, "Change nothing. Go nowhere. I really don't think I can do without you." and wondered if they could ever reclaim the tender openness of the relationship which had been the deepest of her life. When she told Sister Julienne that next week she was going to Chichester, to make her goodbyes to Mother Jesu Emmanuel and Sister Teresa, who had been her Director of Vocations when she joined the community, she thought for a moment that Sister Julienne was about to break down, though she quickly smiled and asked her to deliver some messages to her, no longer their, sisters. She could not bring herself to ask the other request: to give her away at her wedding.

And before that she had seen Patrick, briefly, at lunchtime. They had not fought, nothing so crude, or even come close to arguing. However after they had finalised the list of wedding invitations to be sent, her job for the evening, he had raised, not for the first time, the possibility of her not returning to Poplar after her trip to Chichester; instead accepting her sister's invitation, visiting a healthful place with clean air and open fields, filling her lungs with wholesomeness and resilience, rather than be smothered by the foul beginning of the smog season in London. The logic of his arguments was unquestionable, the sincerity behind his fussing undeniable, but she had interrupted him and said she would rather not, citing the distance of the journey and the cost. He offered to pay, what was his was hers legally in a matter of weeks, it already was to his mind, but she continued to say no.

She was fond of Elspeth and even more of her niece and nephew, but they were not particularly close: the six year age gap had divided them, not drawn them together, when their mother died and she had been only twelve when Elspeth became a land girl, moving to Aberlour, marrying a neighbouring farmer's son and never returning home. Correspondence had been regular and affectionate, but visits infrequent since Shelagh moved to London. Yet this was not the reason behind her refusal and she knew it. After so much separation, she could not now bear to be parted from Patrick, even while knowing how ridiculous, almost insulting, it was to suggest that a week or two, which would have such benefits for her health and bring her back to him stronger and rosier, would make any difference to their feelings or be harder for her than for him. But essentially it was not love, only obstinacy, now that she was embracing a new adult identity without the structured authority she had previously lived by. He had reluctantly dropped the subject and they had laughed and joked over happier subjects, until he returned to work, apologising that he could not pick her up from Nonnatus House later: taking advantage of a cancelled consultation, he was squeezing in a meeting with his solicitor before his evening calls to organise having her name added to the deeds of ownership and mortgage for the house and changing his will in her favour.

The contrast continued to preoccupy her after she arrived back at her lodgings, entering a room still pervaded by the scent of the apparently fragile flowers he had given her, the first time any man had: his apparent acceptance of her facile arguments, or at least her right to be led by them, when his were wiser, better-judged and based on more consideration for her than she was showing to him. She knew, at heart, that he was right. She argued to herself that it could not be stubbornness; she had made changes for him, the greatest change she could make, but she knew the difference, for she had made her decision alone, only seeking advice from Sister Julienne when she was almost certain, only telling him when it was already a fait accompli.

She had thought herself so practised in obedience that partnership would come naturally to her, but this was a different form of submission, not subjugation of self to an entity so vastly greater than herself that dependence upon Him and listening to His will was both logic and as necessary to her as breathing. Nor was it submission of a weak or passive sort, denying her intelligence and independent will, which might be crushing to the point of oblivion yet would be easy to follow. It was a mutual submission, a subtle bridge of compromises which demanded compliance and authority from them both, a melding of who and what they were, beyond the sharing of lives and thoughts and family and home and even a bed, with all that that entailed. Although the vows had not yet been spoken, as surely as if they had been, each portion of him belonged partly to her, while neither her essence nor her mind nor her illness ravaged body belonged solely to her any longer.

The vase of freesias sat upon the table by her bed, but their fragrance swirled around her, offering her peace as she rifled through the chest of drawers to find her address book, the decision now made. They would still be there when she returned from the brief long distance telephone call to her delighted sister. Their perfume would intoxicate her as she lay alone in the dark, entering her senses and seeping into her sleep, yet still there when she woke, sweetly surrounding her.


	9. Chapter 9

"I was wondering whether you might prefer lemonade?"

Sister Julienne was looking at him kindly. Was she always kind, Timothy wondered? He remembered her coming to their house many times, sometimes at moments that he remembered only as a dull heavy ache, but he never thought of her face without thinking of her smiling or so close to it that it felt as though she was.

He looked around the parlour, at coffee cups and teapots wafted in adult hands. "Have you got some? It's not a problem?"

"Not at all," she said. "Possibly tea and coffee are not entirely to your liking?" She dimpled as he wrinkled his nose. "We have some in the kitchen. I'll fetch it."

Tired from ceaselessly playing the hostess, she was only too happy to busy herself with a practicality. It was only after retrieving the bottle from where it had been left after the last visit of Sister Monica Joan's young relatives that she realised Timothy had sidled into the kitchen after her, almost furtive as he thanked her for the drink. "Sister Julienne, can I go outside and play in the garden? If Dad says it's OK?"

"It must be a little dull being the only person your age here," she said sympathetically.

Timothy shrugged. It had not been entirely dull, but the afternoon had been peculiar, and disappointing. The christening itself was moderately interesting, if only because he and Dad had made a wager in the car, the prize being an extra slice of fried bread at supper, about whether the babies would yell when their heads were wetted; he thought both would, Dad only one. One had cried, the other had whimpered and on the way out of the chapel Shelagh as arbiter decided they should call it an honourable draw where both received the prize. However, after they entered the parlour their cosy prattle ended, swamped by adults who stood like leafless birches, passing platitudes along with tea and cake. He felt ill at ease, on show in the stiff jacket and tie, a briefly acknowledged museum exhibit walked past in favour of more exciting artefacts. He put it down to being the youngest, with the exception of the babies, into which category he had also placed Fred's grandson; yet watching his father, there was something similarly unnatural about his behaviour, the laughter a little too bright, the chatter too enthusiastic. It was as though he was wearing new clothes which didn't fit, and he kept looking around, warily glimpsing at Shelagh when he thought nobody was looking. She seemed quiet, the liveliness Timothy was becoming so used to hidden and jokes they normally indulged hushed by the frequent approach of her former colleagues and sisters.

Bored by conversations in which he had no share, he had found a chair at the side of the room from which he shot occasional pained looks at his father, receiving apologetic glances in return, but also raised eyebrows reminding him it was his own fault. He had been warned to bring his book 'just in case', and had intended to. But it now lay next to the telephone in the hall, where he had left it as he ran upstairs, chased by Patrick's irritable call to hurry up, to collect Uncle David's letter and maybe fulfil the promise to 'talk to Constable Noakes' during a rare occasion when he had every right to be at Nonnatus House. Already several minutes late, he stuffed the letter into his pocket and only remembered the forgotten book when they were half way to Shelagh's. Perhaps inevitably, speaking to Constable Noakes had proved impossible; he was surrounded by well wishers, and while he made a point of beaming hello, saying they needed 'to have a good chat soon', that was as close as they came. Instead Timothy turned his attention to the new challenge, examining clothing more keenly than he had ever done in his life, although his observations increased rather than reduced his puzzlement. His father's grey suit, last dragged out who knew when, was hardly exciting, but he certainly didn't see anything wrong with it. In comparison with the other men, he looked positively dapper, although, Timothy reflected, that might be more to do with his slimmer frame than his clothes; noting the buttons straining across Constable Noakes' chest, Timothy suspected the policeman might not meet Auntie Louisa's standards either, while Bagheera in a suit at all, instead of Cubs uniform or shabby flannels and a cardigan stretched over the beer barrel stomach, was frankly bizarre. It was Shelagh, not his father, he realised, who looked out of place, neither clad in the habit's safety, nor venturing into the nurses' bright vibrancy.

"I meant to bring my book, but I forgot it."

"What are you reading at the moment?"

"_The Lost World. _It's really great."

"I'm afraid that's probably not in our collection," she said gravely, but her eyes crinkling. "If you wish to play in the garden you are more than welcome if your father doesn't mind, although I suspect it may be a little cold."

She watched him weave his way into the room and past Fred and Dolly to the far side where Patrick and Shelagh were; and the vision made her catch her breath.

It had been strange to see them together for the first time. As it had ever been, she had seen Dr. Turner on an almost daily basis since the day Shelagh returned, both knowing and neither speaking of how and why she had come back to Poplar; until the morning he appeared at her office quietly asking to speak to her on a personal matter. She knew the news he wished to impart before he began and long before she noted the wedding ring which was no longer there. Shelagh she had seen less frequently: an interview later the same day as the one with the doctor about her intention to marry and stay in Poplar, another about her wish to return to work, some social visits to Nonnatus House at the invitation of the nurses and that first tearful meeting, which had ended in an embrace but severed the tie between them. Each time they stood on either side of an invisible wall, which steadily grew though their polite, uncertain friendliness. She felt Shelagh's wordless appeals, yet Julienne could not respond to her, incapable of knowing what they now were to each other or could be, now the young woman was no longer the dearest, most beloved of her sisters. But still the fierce protectiveness burned, as fervently as it had when she feared Shelagh might be dying and begged God to preserve her, even while asking for the grace to accept it if His love for the girl, greater even than hers, was such that He also wished her beside Him. Today she watched as they faced crowds of friendly curiosity together, seeing their shy awkwardness confronted with affectionate, but impertinent, questions and stares. She longed to stand between them now and the gossip, just as she had done at the lunch table when announcing that Sister Bernadette would not return to Poplar and then, later on, that she had and would soon be Mrs. Turner, but did not know how.

In this moment, however, there was no need. For once briefly left alone, Shelagh, taking her turn with little Fred, was sat in an armchair, cradling the baby. From the indulgent, dreamy expression Sister Julienne recognised, she suspected she was singing to him. A shaft of wintry sunshine from the window gleamed on her hair, casting golden shadows over the child and brightening her own pale skin, a young and strange Madonna. And over her hovered Patrick, more startling still. It was not the adoration, so palpable as he watched her care for the tiny scrap of life, but the restfulness, a wanderer who has come home at last. As Timothy called to his father, the tableau shifted in shape and tone. Hands went into the pockets of the Turner men, their expressions animated, while Shelagh gazed up, her face mirroring what Patrick's had been, but sharper, wittier. And then, the picture shifted once more, some riposte drawing Timothy to her, pulling a face at Fred and whispering. She strained to hear, until Patrick freed her by quickly leaning down and extracting the child, knackily taking it in his arms and winding it, just as Julienne remembered him doing to the boy now telling some secret to the laughing woman. Past and present elided and in this moment Sister Julienne saw the future.

"Let her go, Sister," said a voice abruptly. Beside her was Sister Evangelina, her midwife's bag in hand. "Lil Bishop," she added. "Should be fairly straight-forward. It is her fourth."

"I'm sorry, Sister," Julienne replied. "I don't fully - "

"Codswallop," interrupted Sister Evangelina. "You know exactly what I'm talking about and pretending you don't won't make a stroke of difference. She was never ours. She was His."

Julienne opened her mouth to end the conversation, then saw the grace upon her old friend's face and realised the word she had misinterpreted. "God lent her to us for a while and we were blessed," Sister Evangelina said, then softened, quietened. "Genuinely blessed. And this doesn't mean she didn't have that call then as strongly as this one now. But she was never ours, she was just a loan from Him and now He's sent her back into the world with a different calling. And we've got plenty more things to be worrying about at the moment what with her and Nurse Noakes not able to work and all this stuff and nonsense about the building, and you going around with a face like fizz gone flat doesn't help.

"Now, listen to me. Look at her." They both did, at a beatific face, washed clean of the sickening distress of so many months. Julienne remembered when she had seen that face distorted with unhappiness, weeping in the chapel, able only to say how desperately the indefinable, unspeakable pain hurt her. "Look at him. We both prayed that God would send something or a person to support him and comfort him so he could get on with his work. And He has. So let her go, Sister."

They had known each other too long for Julienne to deny or obfuscate. She looked up to the ceiling, her eyes opened widely, choking back the tears, then turned and found them in her sister's eyes as well. She nodded briefly. "Lil Bishop, you say?"

"Yes, Mitre Steet. Nurse Franklin's next on call, then Nurse Miller. I've told them already and Nurse Franklin's changing." She patted Sister Julienne's arm, taking one last look. "Why's she living in some horrible lodging house at the moment?" Sniffing vigorously, Sister Evangelina bustled to the door.

There was an inconsistency, Julienne supposed, between the final comment and the advice repeatedly given, but she pondered the difference, knowing that to reconcile one was to reconcile both. Looking back at the couple, the picture had changed once more, but still it was lovely. Timothy had now vanished, someone else had taken their turn with the baby, and Patrick and Shelagh were standing side by side with Sister Monica Joan, who watched the young woman with gentle fondness. What she said to Shelagh as she touched her face, Sister Julienne could not guess; from the latter's reaction, it had been excruciatingly embarrassing. But Patrick stepped in front of the older lady's pith, deftly moving the conversation and deflecting her next comment upon himself. As she sailed imperiously on, although hardly a muscle moved in either face, Julienne had the strong suspicion that Shelagh was only just suppressing giggles at something Patrick had said. She could not suppress the temptation to smile herself; for this was real life, in its absurdities, humour and understanding, beyond heart-breaking tragedy or gold-tinted, ephemeral romance, however picturesque they might appear. It was Dr. Turner and Sister Bernadette as they had always been, yet more than they had ever been. Despite the beauty of the earlier images, it was now that she wished a camera would capture the mischief in their faces and for the first time, she wondered how it was that she had never seen the inevitability that these two, the lonely widower and the young woman with such capacity for love, would someday find each other.

Whether it was the wish to preserve an image or simply reflecting on missed signs, she suddenly remembered something from months earlier. Glancing out of the window, she saw Timothy listlessly wandering around the garden and running in between the rows of vegetable beds, and returned to the parlour, to rifle through the contents of her handicrafts drawer and then join him in the garden.

He was swinging on the rails of the disused pig sty when she greeted him. "Hello, Sister Julienne," he replied. "Is this where Evie the pig used to live?"

"Ah, you know about that?"

"Yes, Shelagh told me all about it and how Bagheera fed her sponge cake and Akela got a special dress all messy when the piglets got born and how Sister Evangelina pretended that she thought she was horrid, but used to scratch the back of her ears and talk to her."

Sister Julienne chuckled at the memories. She thought she had been the only person who noticed Sister Evangelina's covert petting of the pig and walked by, hiding her amusement. Just as clearly she remembered Sister Bernadette blithely remarking, after an hour kneeling in dirt delivering piglet after piglet and seemingly unaware of smutches of excrement on her face, that, all things considered, she preferred delivering two legs to four. "Yes, that was her sty. Poor Evie." She had never quite reconciled herself to the sow's eventual fate, claiming light indigestion and lack of appetite the day of the ham pie.

"It's a shame you don't have her anymore. Pigs are interesting. Dad says they're much cleverer than they look. Do you miss her?"

"A little," she admitted. "She was one of our more interesting houseguests."

"Maybe Shelagh could bring one back from her sister's, although I think they've mainly got sheep."

"She's going to Aberlour? I didn't know. When?"

Timothy nodded and scowled as he pulled himself up to sit on the top rail. "Yes. Next Sunday. She's going for ages – almost two weeks. _And_ she's going to Chichester for two days next week as well! She says she'll send me postcards, but I wish she wasn't going. I don't think she really wants to. Dad says it's a good thing as it will make her sister happy and it's much more healthy on the farm than in Poplar and it will help her," piecing together what rules of language he knew, he improvised, "convalescence-ing?" Although Sister Julienne laughed, he knew it was not meant cruelly. "What is the word?"

"Convalescing."

"Her convalescing," he said cheerfully. "Actually, I don't think Dad wants her to go either, even though he says he's pleased. He sighs about it when she's not there. I think it's like cod liver oil and he thinks we should put up with it because it's good for you eventually, but it's horrible at the time."

The odd analogy made her smile, but was strangely apt. The small sacrifice moved her; how she imagined the pangs they would feel. "Two weeks isn't really very long. Perhaps you can write to her too." He shrugged. Trying to brightening his mood, she changed the subject. "Now," she said, "I came to find you particularly, because I was wondering if you would like some of this?" In her hands was her block of drawing paper and some pencils. "I remember a charming picture which you drew for Sister, Shelagh," she quickly corrected herself, "sometime back."

"I do that as well!" he exclaimed. "Dad says I say it so often by accident I should just call her Sister Shelagh and be done with it."

She chuckled at this novel suggestion. "And will you?"

"I don't think so," he replied, but he was not chuckling back. "It's a bit complicated." It was so personal a complication, this confusion of guilt and longing which Dad refused to guide him about. He could not bear the thought that he would be disloyal to the precious remnants in his memory, or, worse still, forget them, yet he privately ached once more to use the first word he had ever learnt and to know that he was no longer motherless, not simply loved by his father's wife. Sister Julienne inspired confidences though, confidences of the sort he couldn't share with many people, and slowly he began. "I don't really know what to call her after the wedding. I asked Dad what he wanted, but he said it didn't matter what he thought as the important thing was I'm comfy with it and Shelagh is too and if the two of us wanted me to call her Mum that's OK, but if we didn't that's OK too."

"I think that's very wise advice," said the nun, very quietly.

From the side door, Patrick and Shelagh had emerged, in earnest discussion. They did not touch as they slowly walked into the garden, although their hands were only centimetres from one another. Several times they looked over towards Timothy, at too great a length for it to be checking where he was, yet they seemed preoccupied. She watched the boy's eyes follow them before he spoke again. "I suppose. It doesn't really matter, names, does it? He paused, awkwardly, wondering whether he should continue then plunged forward. "It's not that I don't want to. I really, really do, except I think Granny Parker would be upset. Is that being bad?"

"No." She waited in case he spoke again, then knew he could not verbalise his anxiety. "But the past and those that we have loved in the past don't go away just because something new has begun or we love new people as well, Timothy." In saying words, do we start to realise, she wondered. Is it then we start to understand? "They will not vanish and we don't forget them. Those memories then are part of the happiness now and," she began to feel the truth of the answer now, "you are happy about your father getting married again, aren't you?"

"Oh yes!" The reply was so ebullient she was infected by it. "It's great. It was me who proposed! I wrote it on the wrapping paper round the ring. Dad gave her it, but I wrote the question."

"Yes, I know." She carefully checked herself. "Shelagh told me. She told me it was delightful precisely because it was from you both."

He beamed. "Did you know I'm going to be Best Man?"

"No, I didn't! What a marvellous idea!"

"Yes." He lowered his voice. "Dad thinks I'm just doing the church bit, but Akela and her husband are helping me with the other stuff. I'll probably need some memories from you, about Dad when he started working here in Poplar, for the speech, you know, if you don't mind and have got any good ones."

She could think of many; they kaleidoscoped in her mind. The questions he did not ask about desperate women like Nora Harding, the bills he forgot to send in the first year before the NHS began, the nurses who flourished in the sunshine of his respect and encouragement, the exhausted consultations where he had nothing left except compassion but poured it out. She remembered the energetic young man as he arrived, his intelligence and his passion for healing. He had not been so young, of course, yet buoyed by his clever, pretty wife, his missionary zeal about the NHS and a simple gratitude for being alive and whole after the war, he had seemed so young to her then. Openly, he said, from the start, he did not believe in God or not a God of her sort, he'd seen too much of the worst of man; he believed in science and humanitarianism and the dignity of the welfare state. But he had seemed a gift from God to them, with as deep a vocation as her own drawing him to these forgotten people, blowing away the dusty neglect of the past. One memory, though, was more distinct and this she could not tell the son: she had wiped frost from the door handle as she knocked, watching winter darkness fading into morning grey while she waited for Mrs. Harrison to open the door. Timothy was eating his breakfast with his grandmother, an enormous pair of eyes in a pale face, as she passed the dining room door to make her way upstairs. Four hours earlier she had stood alongside his father, delivering a breech born child. Only this patient pulled her from her sleep. Every day, twice a day for the past two weeks, she had been there, administering morphine injections he could not bear to give, but he could not bear for her not to have. Elizabeth's breathing was slow and laboured, but her face was smoothed from pain, the beginning of the gradual change to sculptured marble. The broken face was Patrick's, sitting in an armchair next to the bed and holding her hand. There was a blanket slung over the arm of the chair, a cushion which might have been used as a pillow and he was still wearing the clothes he had been wearing the previous night; only the removed tie, the disordered hair and the tiny barbs of stubble were different. Julienne wondered, doubted, if he had slept at all. He started as she entered and quickly got up, apologising for his unkempt state and giving a brief assessment, 'Moderately peaceful, little change', before leaving her with her patient and seeing Timothy off to school. The voice was controlled and reserved; it was the resignation which made it so desperately, desperately sad; not a drowning man, but one already dead, hanging impotently in the water. It resonated now, for she had heard its twin only months before, mistakenly thinking then that it was only her own grief which she was projecting into his four short words: 'Crackles. On both sides.' When she saw him in the afternoon he said nothing beyond a report on a patient he wished put on the list for daily visits. Elizabeth died the next night. No, this memory she would not share, but store away where it could not be found.

"Yes, of course. Perhaps we could have tea and lemonade here some afternoon and I will share what I can," she said.

"That'd be great." But Timothy was only half attending now. "They're watching us."

She looked up. Patrick and Shelagh were leaning against the wall, looking at them, he talking at great length while her laughter carried over the garden to them. As Timothy waved and Patrick waved back, Julienne smiled at Shelagh and watched the start of a grin appear on her face.

"Perhaps you should watch them and make them a picture of this," she suggested.

Timothy was fingering the paper; it was rich and velvety. "This feels really different from my paper. Is it special?"

"I suspect that's because you use a different medium," she said. "Do you normally use pencils? I only have this, for watercolours. The paper needs to be heavier, so the paint is absorbed properly."

"Oh, I remember. Mum sometimes did watercolours and she had a special book Dad got her with thick paper like this. Maybe it was because I had the wrong paper that it didn't work when I tried watercolours at school. All the colours mixed into each other and it looked wrong."

"Possibly," she agreed. "I usually sketch out what I'm going to paint with a pencil first, so I have lines on the paper as guides." She saw him look at her in a puzzled fashion. "Shall we sit?" They walked over to a step by the doorway, sat down and she took the pad and one of softer pencils. "May I?" With light, fine strokes she sketched out the scene in front of her. "Here. You put in the lines. The wall here, there the edge of the flowerbed and the vegetable patch, the sty in the foreground, that window, your father and Shelagh here." Now they had turned and were facing each other, still not touching but very close. Instead, he touched the wall, perhaps steadying himself, leaning down as he spoke. "Sometimes it's useful to have people in a landscape; you gain a better sense of relative size. They add perspective," she said, musing over the word.

"I see," said Timothy, although he was not sure he did, and looked around the garden. Although the sun was shining, it was bleak and the garden was lifeless. "There's not a lot to draw really, is there?"

"Perhaps not now. But you can imagine what will be here and sometimes those are the most beautiful pictures, because you can have everything at once. In a few weeks there will be snowdrops over there and after that daffodils and tulips. In the summer there are roses over by that wall near where your father and Shelagh are. And those bushes are raspberries, blackcurrants and gooseberries. Here is where we grow salad vegetables and potatoes. You could even have another Evie in the sty if you wanted."

Tearing off the top page from the block and tucking it into her belt, she left him with a clean page and his slowly unfolding imagination and started to cross the garden to span the other distance. Patrick and Shelagh had looked up so often and sometimes so cheerily while she and Timothy were talking for her to be afraid of disturbing some private tête-à-tête. However, as she drew close to them she felt the mistake. Patrick was asking something, probing, encouraging Shelagh to tell him something, while she looked intensely at him. When she did it was one word, spoken simply, too quietly for Julienne to hear, and with an unwavering gaze.

Whatever she had said had the most extraordinary effect upon him. He seemed profoundly shaken, almost to the point of being incapable of speech. He swallowed and briefly looked away, struggling with some deeply felt emotion and covering his mouth with his hand, perhaps willing the words he several times tried to express to emerge. Faltering, he reached for her hand and only when he grasped it could he finally speak, now fixedly looking at her. "Shelagh, I - ". He stopped and bent over her hand, kissing it, then held it in both of his. "My darling, it would be the greatest privilege and honour." And then, as normality retreated into his face once again, something faintly teasing, almost wicked crept into his smile and finally his voice: "Well, when the time comes, I'll see what I can do."

Julienne wondered if they were a garden of their creation now. The raw intimacy of this moment should not have been seen or heard and she started to turn away. It was too late, though. She had been seen.

"Greetings, Sister," said Shelagh.


	10. Chapter 10

**As always, thank you so much to all of the people who've taken the time to review this or send PMs and keep providing encouragement to keep going - not only with this, but also through a really grotty week at work! It means so much and is appreciated so much, in particular when I realise this narrative is going at snail's pace. The next chapter will push things on a bit - I promise!**

It was while she was holding the baby that Patrick realised the one conversation they had never had, and was incredulous. After they talked of love and choices and the strangeness of what had occurred, there had been so many things that would matter once they were married which they had discussed, everything he had thought: the disruption to Timothy, her faith and his scepticism, how to make things easier for the Parkers, her health and convalescence, his smoking, when she would return to work and how much, his work hours, the state of the mortgage and repairs which needed to be made to the house, Mrs. Harrison's role, where Timothy would go to secondary school, assuming he did well in his Eleven Plus. Once early on, in delicate chaste allusions they had even discussed making love; he, with his knowledge, painful in his sincerity to assure her that with everything there was no rush or expectation, after they were married he would happily wait until she was ready; and she, so earnest and shy in her virgin uncertainty, telling him that all of her was his. He had spoken of her ease, but had wondered whose ease it truly was which was disturbed. Allowing himself to think of waking by her side had still seemed like violating her purity; to imagine their limbs tangled or bodies fused within the sheets sacrilege. How far they had come in a few short weeks, he thought. Still modest, still unsullied, yet beginning to discover the gift they would give one another as they cautiously unwrapped its outermost cover. How much more conscious would they be when, as perhaps they should, they reprised that conversation.

But that they had managed to discuss making love, yet never talked of its consequence, seemed incredible. Perhaps it was too close to work, he did not know; but he felt he should have raised it. The answer looked so obvious and easy as he watched her with the Noakes' baby, less an answer than a promise, but he knew it never was.

"Dad, can I go outside and play in the garden? Sister Julienne says it's alright."

He took an amused look at Timothy's excitement and also at the lemonade dripping onto the carpet. Putting his hands in his pockets, he replied. "Not when you've got that drink. Could you stop sloshing it around all over the place and then maybe we can consider it."

Timothy groaned and drained the glass. "I'm finished. Can I go now? Please, Dad." The voice became wheedling as Timothy's hands also slid into his pockets. "It's quite boring here. And if I'm enjoying myself, you won't worry about me getting into mischief because I'm bored, and you'll enjoy yourself more."

Ignoring the impressively perceptive logic, Patrick picked up the earlier comment. "A bit boring, is it? Is someone regretting not remembering to bring his book with him? Like he was told to?"

Timothy squirmed. "Yeah.

"Poor you, Timothy," remarked Shelagh, sweetly. "It must be terribly difficult having a father who's never forgotten anything."

Timothy snorted loudly, while Patrick raised an eyebrow. "Touché, sweetheart." It was almost a provocative pout she gave him as she returned to Fred, who had started grizzling. Despite Timothy pulling his best silly face at the baby before beginning to whisper ardently in Shelagh's ear, Fred's cries resonated with intention. Quickly, Patrick took him from her and started steadily patting him on the back, anticipating the resolute burp he eventually heard. Then he changed his position and began rocking him, batting one flailing hand away, like an idle fly swat confronted with an inquisitive insect. How long had it been since he had last played with a baby, rather than treated it, listening to the gurgles and cuddling the chubby limbs out of affectionate pleasure, not professional attention? Kenneth's little Gareth perhaps, maybe the children of Elizabeth's sister, Anna?

He was solemnly informing Fred that 'this little piggy went to market', when he felt a shadow on his shoulder. "How did you settle him so quickly?" asked Peter Noakes enviously.

"Practice. You'll soon get used to it," Patrick grinned.

"I hope so," he replied, refusing the immediate offer to have his son returned to him, although Patrick suspected that the policeman had not simply wandered over to make conversation, but drawn by the tiny fulcrum of his world. Then he yawned widely. "How long does it take?"

"Getting much sleep?"

"Not a lot."

Patrick chuckled sympathetically. "Not that long. In a few weeks Fred'll start developing his own little personality much more, which makes it easier to work out what he wants and so much more rewarding. The first time they laugh is wonderful." Timothy was still giggling and muttering to Shelagh. "Too soon really. Sometimes you wish they would stay little forever."

"Can you give me some tips some time? I'll buy you a pint."

"Make it Guinness and I'll tell you everything I know."

"Done." They both laughed. It was not the first time Peter Noakes had singled him out, realised Patrick. He had been very friendly all afternoon, in fact for the previous few weeks. He wondered whether Noakes sought male solidarity, feeling the same mild terror which he occasionally did when confronted with the numbers and sheer noise of the Nonnatus women; charming, yes, but still a monstrous regiment of women. Perhaps they were forming a club for the rare breed that was the beleaguered Nonnatus husband: Peter Noakes, Patrick Turner and God, possibly the strangest dinner party imaginable. Occasionally he thought he had seen something else in the expression, and even now he thought he saw it again, as though the policeman was not looking at him, but through him, scanning him for some hidden feature; yet it seemed so deeply unlikely.

"Dad, can I go?" Timothy, surreptitiously waving at the constable, had returned.

Patrick jerked his head towards the garden. "Alright. Off you go. Don't - "

"Break anything or cause mayhem. I won't!"

Patrick turned briefly to Shelagh to shrug, but stopped when confronted by her: that knowing, indulgent look, something indefinable he did not feel he deserved. Although he could not prove it, he was as certain as he could be that she too was thinking of the discussion they had not had.

Recognising the covetousness in Peter Noakes' eyes, he handed the baby back to him. "Enjoy it - that's the main thing." He offered his hand to Shelagh and the two of them watched Peter make his way through the crowd, chattering all the time to his son. Then he turned to Shelagh, her lips slightly upturned, her eyes expectant, and his certainty grew.

"Shelagh, there's something we haven't discussed."

"Yes, I know." He knew she did, that she understood entirely.

"I think we should." She nodded and he felt her squeeze his hand. He started to search the room, seeking the impossibility of a place where they would not be interrupted or a way to escape. It hardly mattered whether they had this conversation, forgotten for so long, now or later, but now it seemed to evolve so naturally. Their moment of quiet peace, however, could not last.

"'My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee'." She had joined them, yet was not there, her body halted before the place where her eyes watched Peter Noakes cradling his son, long before the place to which her memory had travelled.

"Hello, Sister Monica Joan," said Shelagh.

"Good afternoon, Sister," he said politely.

"It's a lovely sight, isn't it, Sister?" Shelagh asked, taking the elderly lady's hand, the touch sweeping musty cobwebs from her eyes, drawing her back to where she was. "They seem so happy."

Sister Monica Joan blinked, the owl-like gaze refocusing on the couple before her. "Yes, happy, truly. Happiness seems indeed to be the fashion." She reached out to Shelagh and gently touched her face, slowly stroking her cheek. For a moment they stood in silence, while Patrick watched this mysterious laying on of hands bestow its impenetrable blessing. Her voice was low and loving when she spoke once more. "'This medicine, love, which cures all sorrows'."

Shelagh smiled shyly, but the embarrassed blush was sudden and fierce. It was Patrick who replied for them both, "I don't think I know the reference, Sister."

As mercurial as her mind was the change in demeanour. The haughty disdain was reminiscent to an elderly maiden aunt confronted with an unfortunate mess made by a naughty pug. "It is gratifying to discover that there are some areas where perhaps you are prepared to admit my memory still exceeds yours, Dr. Turner. The reference, as you describe it, is from John Donne! Either your memory is most faulty or you give a very poor impression of the benefits of a grammar school education." She sailed on.

"That's me put in my place," muttered Patrick to Shelagh, who was irrepressibly giggling and trying to hide it.

"The truth now: did you recognise the other one?"

He shook his head, at which point she abandoned all attempts at camouflaging the giggling. "Wordsworth, maybe? Did you know it?" A second later they both unceremoniously snorted. He wondered how it was that so undignified an eruption and the accompanying creasing of her face could somehow seem beautiful and make him long to cause them once more. Then her face softened again, the eyes warmed and he could not imagine another expression. "Shelagh, you know what it was I wanted to discuss?"

"Yes, I'm sure I do," she said. "Shall we join Timothy in the garden?" He was about to protest, but she forestalled him. "Perhaps I could borrow your coat? I'm sure I would be warm enough then, if you didn't mind."

Unseen, they slipped out of the parlour, between groups crowded around the babies, and into the hall where Patrick's coat was hanging. He had been holding her hand before he helped her into the coat, but now, the fragile void of the subject in front of them, he felt unsure. For so long he had passionately advocated his women patients' rights, the need for them to know they had a choice; he feared he could not steer his way through these gusts and squalls without manipulating her. Instead of taking the hand again, he kissed her on the forehead, then stepped back, reaching into his pocket to find his cigarettes. She said nothing, watching him carefully. He had already smoked half of it by the time they reached the door to the garden. She reached for the handle, but he stopped her, holding it shut by the hand where the Henley smouldered.

"There's no obligation, Shelagh, there never was. It's a choice, your choice."

"I know."

"I'm not marrying you for more children. It's because I love you, you know that, don't you?" He had thought the words so often he did not realise that now, in a chilly cloister whistled over by the draught from the door, was the first time he had ever said them.

She did, however, and thrilled to their sound. Laying her hand on his shoulder, she began to run it down his arm until it met the angle of his elbow where his arm was turned against the door; with gentle pressure she pulled it down so his hand lay by his side and the door was released. "Yes, my love, I know. But it's not just my choice. And what if I do want them?" Letting go of him, she turned the handle and they walked into the garden.

A long deep drag, again, ripples of red nipped at his fingertips. He discarded the stub and started another. "And do you?"

She paused. The garden was barren now, the bulbs and seeds under the earth waiting for spring. "I always thought I never would have the chance. I reconciled myself to it. It's strange to think that it's possible, like being offered a star and told it could be mine." She waited. Still he listened, waiting for her. "But it's like a star, the idea of having children, it feels that wonderful." He nodded slowly, gravely. She wondered if he saw the small misgiving, her private fear, and felt certain he did. "I worry about Timothy."

"In what way?" He thought he knew, but that she needed to express the anxiety herself.

"He's had so much to handle. I worry it would disrupt him. I couldn't bear to upset him, Patrick, or have him think I didn't love him or wanted to replace him."

"Sweetheart," he said, leaning into the quiet hush of the first sound, "he couldn't think you didn't love him. You'd never let him think that. We'll always make him know he's irreplaceable." They both looked over to him, sitting on the rails of the pigsty, deep in conversation with Sister Julienne. "A wise person once said to me 'Children are more resilient than you think'." They both half-smiled at the memory; had that been the start? "And you were right. He adapts to things, better than me really. These last few weeks he's been happier than he's been for years. Whatever happens, whether we have children or don't, I think he'd be alright." His smile broadened as he watched his son examining something he had been given by the nun. "He's extraordinary really. Always has been. Sometimes I can't believe he's mine."

"What was he like when he was little?" She loved to hear him speak; these instances when he let open the gates and allowed his thoughts to flow were so precious and rare, this subject the only one where his reserve so frequently tumbled.

Patrick mused, then began with a sharp laugh. "Loud. He didn't cry much, but he never seemed to stop making noise. When he started trying to talk, he made this yowl as though he was warning shipping off the coast of France, terribly proud of himself for making this surprising sound. Born asking questions. The first time I laid eyes on him, I swear he was thinking them: Who are you? What does that mean? What's that thing around your neck?"

"What was the thing around your neck?"

"Stethoscope."

Shelagh was surprised, even a little shocked. "Were you present at the birth?"

Patrick's lips twitched. "Our midwife was Sister Evangelina."

"That's no, then."

"Don't you remember? I suppose you'd only just started." He explained, "Timothy was born on the same day as the ante-natal clinic, it was Wednesday back then. I was in the middle of a consultation when Sister Evangelina marches in and announces 'Your wife's in labour and I'm on my way. And don't start telling me what to do – I've been delivering babies since you were one.' and off she goes. I finish seeing to my patient, although I have no idea what I said to the poor woman, make my excuses to Sister Julienne and charge home, breaking the speed limit the whole way, to sit in the sitting room for hours. It was only after Timothy was born when I went up to see them and Elizabeth asked why I was dressed the way I was that I realised I was still wearing my clinical coat and I'd left my jacket in the parish hall. I started keeping my car keys in my jacket pocket, not my trousers, after that," he finished sheepishly.

"What else? About Timothy."

He leaned against the wall and inhaled, sucking curls of smoke into his lungs, still smiling at the object of his reminiscence on the other side of the garden. "He bumped into everything when he was learning to walk. Every piece of furniture, the stairs, the lot. If there was something he could career into, he would. I'm amazed he hasn't fallen into that pig-sty actually, although he probably would feel fairly at home in it. You should see his bedroom sometimes."

"There speaks the man with the study," she remarked drily.

He grinned. "Like father, like son?" He did not realise the irony of the words when accompanied by the face, the grin so similar to Timothy's she almost ached to see it. As if to underline it, Timothy looked up and waved, Patrick mirroring him almost immediately. "He loved building things. I'd look at his wooden blocks and see a house or a tower or something. He'd see a whole town made for dragons and build roads all over the sitting room for dragon trains to get from one place to another. It drove Elizabeth to distraction the way we left the blocks all over the place."

"You love being a father, don't you?" she said quietly.

Instinct drove him forward, anxiety dragged him back. There could be no neutral response to a question where his answer was so unequivocal, but how could that not be leading her? Timothy was sitting now with Sister Julienne, bent over the sketching pad, watching her draw. Reluctantly, Patrick pulled his eyes away so he could not see him and be tempted to reveal more than he wished. "I think I'm very, very lucky to have him."

"He's lucky to have you," she replied, watching him shy away away from the compliment, finishing his cigarette to mask his reaction. She continued, stating a fact, not questioning or probing, knowing what she was acknowledging, to herself as well as to him, with the final word. "You'd like more children too."

"Too?" His face was still neutral, trying to negotiate the meaning of the word, adding swiftly, "I will always count myself extraordinarily lucky having him and you."

She knew the tight expression, the tripping dance between his mind and his feelings which he was playing, and interrupted him. "As well as me. You want more children, just as much as I do."

Inside, something bubbled and glowed; he could not say he had not thought of it, gorging himself on the recollection of her mothering of the little girl in the X-Ray van and a litany of frightened tiny patients, before then allowing himself to imagine the phantom children. Yet still the last few specks of terror barred this light. He touched the wall to steady himself. "You'd be a wonderful mother," he started. It was bitter to break her ecstatic smile, now emerging. "But Shelagh, pregnancy places tremendous strains upon the internal organs, on the heart and the lungs – "

"I'm better, Patrick."

"You're getting better, but you're still a long way from your full health. And even after you've convalesced, you know how long you're still at risk."

"Patrick! I'm not made of glass."

"You can still break though, Shelagh. And I couldn't bear it, I couldn't, if it was me who broke you."

There was something brutal in the rawness of the voice; looking at him was to be seared by him. "Then we don't try immediately, perhaps not for a little while. But I would so like to try." Now it was her whose voice was breaking with a stripping away of reserve until only her inner life was left. "When I first joined the Order there were times when I saw the women we nursed and I longed for what they had, but I accepted it, I put it out of mind. Then, in this last year, when I felt that longing, I felt it like a pain, something physical. And it wasn't just about having a baby, even having a baby of my own; it was about having – " She stopped, willing him to understand him.

As intensely as she watched him, he gazed back, but could not see beyond the curtain. "What? Having something? Having someone?" He lent forward, the creases between his eyes deepening. "What, Shelagh? You can tell me, whatever it is. Please tell me. It wasn't about having one of your own, it was about having what?"

"Yours," she said simply.

That one word could fell him so entirely seemed impossible, that her abiding, overarching reason was him inexplicable. Dumbly, he stared at her, groping for words which seemed written in air, vanishing as they were thought, then, dazed, he reached for her. "Shelagh, I – " Still he could not say how much he felt. Instead, he bent his head and laid his lips upon her hand with the tenderness he found inexpressible, the action releasing him, the promise made. She was smiling when he stood once more before her. "My darling, it would be the greatest privilege and honour." And then, seeing tears creeping into her eyes, he continued, his voice lowered and teasing, "Well, when the time comes, I'll see what I can do."

He thought she was about to laugh, when her eyes darted away beyond his shoulder. "Greetings, Sister."

There was hardly any conversation in his life which Patrick would have been more mortified for Sister Julienne to have heard. Even that tentative discussion about making love would have been preferable in its oblique earnestness to this; he wondered how much she heard or whether it had only been the last libidinous, cheap remark. What he saw in her, however, was embarrassment, not condemnation.

"I apologise. I disturbed you."

"Not at all, Sister," he lied, while Shelagh similarly demurred and the wind continued to whistle. They stood inertly, waiting for somebody to begin.

In the end, it was Sister Julienne. "I realised I had not had the chance to speak to you all afternoon. You both appear very well. I was enjoying watching you with little Fred," there was a slight, deliberate pause and with a smile she continued, "Shelagh."

"He's a lovely baby," she agreed. "Chummy and Peter seem extremely happy."

She laughed. "Yes, he is. It's rather marvellous having a baby in Nonnatus House, especially just before we enter Advent. He is not always a respecter of The Great Silence, which Sister Evangelina finds a little trying. Even Nurses Franklin, Lee and Miller with their contraband come second to him in terms of noise." She twinkled at Shelagh, at their shared memories of secrets which those involved never realised they knew about. "However, as Fred doesn't yet have an appetite for Mrs. B's cake, he is still very much the favourite of Sister Monica Joan." There was a special laugh, a fruity rumble between a giggle and chuckle, which Patrick realised he had not heard for many months; a laugh the two women only shared with one another.

"Thank you for taking care of Timothy," said Patrick, making his offering to her. "You're very kind."

Sister Julienne shook her head. "It's an absolute pleasure, as always. He's delightful, Dr. Turner."

"Thank you. Sometimes," he added gloomily to Shelagh. It was fleeting, the shared amusement, but Sister Julienne saw it still. "He will have appreciated the paper and pencils. It's been rather dull for him."

"Of course," she said. "I think he regrets that we don't have a pig for him to pet anymore." They all laughed now. "He did offer your services to bring one back from your sister's, should we like one!" Although her smile did not change in the brief pause, her voice was gentler. "I did not know you were planning to go to Scotland."

Again she saw their exchange of glances, so short and myriad in meanings; trust, regret, apology. "We only decided a couple of days ago, after I spoke to you."

"And you're going next Sunday?"

She shook her head. "The Saturday night, the day after I return from Chichester. I can take the sleeper to Edinburgh and change there for Aberdeen. If I can arrive during the day on Sunday, Elspeth can come and collect me."

"How lovely. She must be very excited about seeing you." Shelagh nodded, the wistfulness in both faces as they did not look at one another still palpable to Sister Julienne. "And your niece and nephew. It must be eighteen months since you've seen them. How old are they?"

The smile became a little more natural. "Yes, nearer to two years now. Agnes is eleven now and Jamie will turn fourteen while I'm visiting, which will be very nice. Patrick has been advising me on what to buy as a gift."

"An excellent source of ideas, I'm sure." Patrick smiled politely. What a suburban upbringing in St. Alban's had taught him about gifts for the son of a Morayshire farmer in the far north of Scotland he was uncertain. "And when do you return?"

"Two weeks before the wedding." Silently, almost unnoticed, their fingers interlaced.

"Have you thought about where you will stay when you return?"

Briefly Shelagh's lip wobbled. "At the lodging house where I am now. I can keep the room there while I am away. It's clean and comfortable and respectable and this way I can leave things behind I don't want to take to Scotland." She could not mention the bitter truth which she knew every time she opened the door to the building: that she had nowhere else to go.

"Won't you be charged for board and lodgings then, even when you aren't there?"

Shelagh made a little gesture of acknowledgement, still smiling as far as she could. For the second time that day, it was Patrick who spoke, soothing her unease and this time expressing both of their thoughts. "Even though we know that there was never any impropriety, it matters a great deal to us both, Sister, that the community should see that too, for our sake and for the sake of the Order. We want it to be completely clear where Shelagh is living during this time."

There was a quiet dignity in his words. Clear in voice and vision, she replied, "Nobody who knows either of you, or has ever known you, Dr. Turner, could ever imagine either of you to be guilty of the slightest impropriety of any sort."

"Thank you, Sister." There was more than belief in his integrity lying below this confidence: the beginning of acceptance.

"I realise it may be far easier to leave your belongings in your lodgings and you may be settled there now and not wish to move, especially given your travels in the coming weeks. However, I wondered whether you might like to stay as a guest here at Nonnatus House for the last two weeks before your wedding. There is certainly room and it would save you from spending unnecessary money." At this point she could not continue, silenced by Shelagh's trembling face. Her eyes were shining with tears.

"Sister," she whispered.

"There would always be room for you here if you wished it, she began again, quickly. "Perhaps it would be too strange."

He was neither needed nor wanted now, he knew it. Gently, Patrick released his grip on Shelagh's fingers, letting his slip out of her hold. "My apologies, Sister Julienne, I think I'd better check on the progress of the masterpiece." Fractionally leaning down as he turned away, laying his hand in the small of Shelagh's back, he muttered, "Ask her," then walked away. He promised himself ten paces, treading deeply into the earth, then turned to see and smile at Shelagh in Sister Julienne's arms.

"How's the work of genius?" he asked.

Timothy grinned up at him and handed over the picture. "What do you think?"

The garden had been an emotional maelstrom, an exhausting crucible. They would leave this place wearied, yet still closer, its November bite made glorious and bright. He wondered how Timothy, someday perhaps the elder, even eldest of their children, had immortalised its truth and romance as he examined the picture: it was clearly drawn, his imagination richly mined. There was nothing like Timothy for puncturing him, reflected Patrick, as he took in a sketch of a sty, filled with vegetables and presided over by a comfortably padded and spotty pig.

"You do get spotty pigs, don't you?" asked Timothy.

"I believe so," replied Patrick seriously. "I'm not sure that pigs get the measles though."

Timothy huffed, loudly but cheerfully. "What are they talking about?"

Sister Julienne and Shelagh were now slowly walking. "Important things. Things they needed to say."

"There are times," admitted Shelagh, "when I wish I was still wearing the habit. It almost felt freer then. I wore it and I was free just to be, with no expectations or restrictions. I never worried about whether I was peculiar or out of place or what other people thought of how I looked."

Julienne had memories enough of her youth as a young nurse before she joined the Order to understand. "Today must have been rather trying."

"A little. I never feel odd when I'm with Patrick and Timothy. It's so easy and natural. But it is not always like that with everybody else."

"This is only the start of the road, Shelagh. It will become easier eventually, although it may become harder still first." She stopped at the edge of the flowerbed where bushes of herbs threw out their scent. "And before long we will have you back in a blue uniform once more, albeit a different one."

"It must be so difficult at the moment. Especially the uncertainty about the convent."

Sister Julienne sighed. "Yes."

"Are there any ways to challenge the decision?"

"We are still investigating them and in the meantime we pray and trust in God. I have a letter for Mother Jesu Emmanuel on this subject which I hope you can deliver by hand."

"Of course," she said quietly. "I have prayed every day for Nonnatus House, Sister. And everyone in it."

"As I have for you, Shelagh." Once more they began to walk, paralleling the edge of the grass. "And for now, we manage. Sister Evangelina is, if it can be believed, even more energetic. I can't deny I will be very glad when you are well enough to return to work – in the New Year," she pointedly added, "and I shall employ every possible argument to ensure that Nurse Turner is not seconded immediately to the London." She paused, allowing her mind to accept the name she had just said. "I am hoping that suggesting a need for restricted hours due to delicate health and a young step-son will work! In the meantime, I have requested a short-term replacement until then, whom I hope may start next week. She will certainly be needed as first on call the day of your wedding. After her, we must draw lots to see who is second and I'm afraid I may cheat by leaving my name out of the hat."

Shelagh had stopped once more and laid her hand upon Sister Julienne's arm. "Sister, I have a favour I would like to ask of you."

"Of course."

She swallowed and began. "My parents are dead and I have no brothers or uncles. I know that Elspeth and the children will come to my wedding. Maybe Robert too if he can. However, we have seen each other so little in the past fifteen years." She looked down, fumbling with her fingers. "It is not her who it was so hard to leave." Even after she looked upwards again, she continued to scratch at the edge of one nail. "I do understand if you would rather not, but I would be so happy if you'd be willing to give me away at my wedding?"

From his view on the step next to Timothy, Patrick watched Sister Julienne raised her hands and silently clap them, then heard the undulation of sobs and joy course over the garden as the two women once again embraced each other and with it, the barriers were washed away.


	11. Chapter 11

**Sorry this has taken a while. I found it really hard getting this bit to work and had a bit of a confidence blip. Thank you once again to all of the reviewers and readers for their encouragement - the feedback from the last chapter was lovely. Clearly I should complain about grotty weeks at work more often!**

By the following Saturday morning when a suitcase sat on the doorstep of Nonnatus House, long kept in a musty storeroom there, Shelagh was wondering how she ever believed she had had enough of resting. Fourteen hours earlier, the second of two jolting buses bringing her back from Chichester had rolled to a halt at the docks; in eight hours her train would draw out of King's Cross to begin snaking north and another suitcase, rescued from oblivion in Patrick's house, lay in the boot of his car. Yet, it was not her body which struggled. Each day she listened to its pulses, feeling its gradual strengthening as she stretched its capabilities once more. The wearying was in her mind. Her days in Chichester had been halcyon ones, dipping in and out of the rhythm of the day, with stretches of quiet reflection. Mother Jesu Emmanuel welcomed her warmly, as neither prodigal nor stranger, but someone still beloved. Nonetheless, Sister Teresa challenged her, although Shelagh saw the candid probing for what it was: just as it had been years earlier when the questions concerned her wish to join the Order, the queries were to help her understand her own desires, to sift the temporary from the permanent and to discover God's will. Always little, long retired, Sister Teresa seemed more frail and bird-like than ever, her steps slow when they walked through the convent and punctuated with frequent stops; yet her mind radiated the cold smooth steel of intellect. Their conversations were less a discussion of Shelagh's well-being than a rigorous tutorial with an Oxford don where the topic was the theology of vocation and the case study Shelagh herself. It was a relationship unlike any Shelagh had ever had, based on absolute honesty and confidentiality; and when her catechism was over and they knelt to pray side-by-side, she had been led by her elderly confessor to the deepest circle of peace, confirming the rightness of what she had decided to do. She was exhausted though, emotionally wrung, and her mind, while she understood it better now, still turned inside out.

Before that had been the lunch with Louisa Watson, which evolved and lengthened with each fresh pot of tea ordered to lace their conversation. At first she was awkward; the restaurant was smarter than she had anticipated, the query 'Are you Shelagh?' from across the room when she arrived made other people stare and beside Louisa Watson, exquisitely dressed and in middle-age still as beautiful as she appeared in photographs as a student, she felt frumpy and uncomfortable. This lasted only minutes, however, swept up in Louisa's ebullience. It was impossible to feel ill at ease with a lunch companion whose opening gambit was showing off the broken spine of the book she was reading, explaining it was a fabulous new book about a bear from Peru who was named after a train station which was supposed to have been a Christmas present for a nephew but she had dipped into it and got hooked and now she would have to buy a new copy for the nephew and would Shelagh like to borrow this, as it was such fun and frankly such a relief after the depressingly ambiguous morality of the stuff churned out for adults these days? Impossible to feel ill at ease, although perhaps slightly dizzying. Yet before they ordered, she saw the other sides of Louisa Watson, which, even more than the intelligence and humour, made sense of Patrick's affection for her and her husband. While scanning the menu, Louisa casually announced, 'This is courtesy of David and me'. When Shelagh tried to protest, too proud in her poverty to accept charity, Louisa listened, then replied:

"I know what you're saying, and I don't want to embarrass you, but this was my invitation. It's not being Lady Bountiful, believe me." There was no side, only honesty. "David has no brothers, only three sisters who drive him to distraction most of the time. I have no siblings at all. Patrick - he's our brother. And we never thought we'd hear him so happy again. We could take you for dinner at The Savoy every night for a month and it would never come close to what we owe you. So, please, let me pay this time. And when you're back working in a couple of months, lucky woman that you are, you can take me out as often as you please."

Remembering how Patrick had called Louisa his 'little sister' and how Sister Julienne immediately identified the couple when Shelagh mentioned this lunch, explaining how frequently they visited Elizabeth in the last months, Shelagh wrestled with pride and accepted the treat. Then the afternoon richly flowed with illuminating anecdotes about student life, accounts of their working lives, and then a richer tapestry of attitudes and thoughts which weaves stronger friendships than common experiences or people. She teased Patrick that evening, responding to his query 'How did it go?', by announcing they had discussed Paddington Bear, of whom he had never heard, a paper in the _BMJ_ about methotrexate, which they had both read but Patrick had not, and whether Liberty's in Regent Street, a store which he could not have identified had he been stood in front of it, was the best place for buying ladylike clothes off the peg which would last. Although she did not know, it would not have surprised her to learn that in Hampstead Louisa was playing the same exasperating game before finally taking pity on David, assuring him with a gleeful peck on the lips, 'She's one of us, darling. And she adores him. You didn't really think Patrick would pick a ninny, did you?'

Now she stood with Patrick and Timothy, returning to the place which had been her home for so long. They flanked her, just as they had a week before, when she had contemplated the net of bricks confronting her. She had known each bump and dent in the steps, every pock mark on the warped door, but the building had retreated from her. Now the stones seemed to whisper to her, calling her back.

Trixie squealed as she opened the door, crushing her into a hug. "You're here! Welcome home!"

"Not for long, Trixie. I'm just dropping off some things."

"Doesn't matter. At least we'll get a little bit of you in a couple of weeks before you go running off to married life." As she relinquished her hold on Shelagh, quickly replaced by Jenny, she turned back to the hall with the impudent shout, "It's the Turners."

Shelagh opened her mouth to quietly admonish her, but then she caught the flash in Patrick's eye, brightening as what he once thought could never be, now became not just what would be, but what was. Instead, she greeted Jenny, waiting for when she could find his hand again.

"Don't stand there letting the cold in! Let's be having you." Sister Evangelina, now joining the welcoming party, seized the case. They were urging her forward, ushering her in, and at her elbow she saw one of Patrick's hands, ready to assist her over a threshold she had crossed thousands of times in darkness, rain and smog. But she took the hand and leant into it; and he knew, without word or look, that she had seen his look and understood what those few words had meant. Then the commotion resumed as she was hurried to her room.

It was the room next to Jane's, just along from Cynthia's, the quietest spot on the nurses' corridor. But returning there, remembering how she had wistfully lingered outside doors which were closed in her face, was unnerving and she sent the others away before she opened the door. The shape and décor of the room were hardly different from her old cell and she reeled, blasted by terrifying familiarity. The heeled shoes became uneven and she tottered, the nipped in waist of her suit seemed to crawl over her like sin. Looking down, she expected to see the dark blue habit enveloping her. Her bare head was too light. She clasped her hand, seeking the ring, the only tangible anchor that this was not a fantasy concocted by unrequited love gnawing at a fevered mind. Its sharp edges calmed her, but she still sat down on the bed, steadying her breathing.

"Are you alright?" asked Jenny, appearing in the doorway.

"Perfectly, thank you," Shelagh demurred.

"Sister Evangelina said to tell you that there's tea in the parlour when you are finished unpacking." Jenny waited, unconvinced by Shelagh's protestation.

"That's very kind, but I don't know if we'll have time."

She was about to explain, but Jenny was starting to smirk. "Because you've got to take Timothy to his grandmother's and then get to King's Cross? Dr. Turner already tried that with Sister Evangelina."

"And he's now in the parlour, drinking tea?" Jenny nodded and Shelagh, laughing, found herself once again. "Very well, then." She stood up and opened the suitcase.

"Can I help you unpack?" offered Jenny.

Shelagh wanted to say no, ashamed at Jenny seeing the dowdy possessions which still had such sentimental value for her who had so little. But the offer had been too genuine to refuse without rudeness and she tried not to see the instinctive curl of Jenny's lip as they hung up the clothes she would not take to Scotland: the dreary grey suit, two drab shapeless blouses and a thin, old-fashioned cotton nightie.

She heard Jenny's little gasp of pleasure, however, when she unfolded one of two new garments, a pretty light-coloured skirt. "This is lovely! It's just right for you! I've not seen you wear this." So far she had only dared to wear it to Patrick's house, afraid of seeming fast or having selected poorly. "Where's it from?" continued Jenny, checking the label. "If you had a light blue jumper, like Jane's, they'd be perfect together." She was mentally creating different outfits for the skirt as she found a hanger, but not so transported that she did not spot Shelagh quickly remove the last garment from the case and hide it away in a drawer. Jenny had dislodged it earlier and seen it start spilling out of the tissue paper surrounding it: pale and silky, trimmed with lace, clearly unworn as yet. Intrigued, she was about to ask what it was, until Shelagh's furtive manner made her guess when the garment was intended for and she flushed with realisation.

Instead, she put away books and then organised Shelagh's photographs of her family, while Shelagh herself found homes for others of her few belongings – three long playing records, a memento of her mother – then arranged the remainder for her return. Jenny suspected she knew when the simple glass vase might recently have been used and the origins of a drawing of a nun hand-in-hand with a cheerful school boy, although she could make no sense of a matchbox containing a dead butterfly.

For Timothy too the week had been exhausting; inconsistently, he looked back almost longingly to the calm days of waiting. On Tuesday, Shelagh had returned from lunch with Auntie Louisa with a note for him, which proved to be the promised list of plays and a postscript that Uncle David would telephone on Thursday, allegedly to tell his father about Uncle Kenneth's trip to London, but really to find out Timothy's choice. After Shelagh left that evening, he therefore began inveigling; on Mrs. Harrison's night off, Dad was never on call, while no amount of prayer, however fervent, could guarantee no medical emergency the following night. Patrick, while most surprised by Timothy asking whether they had Shakespeare's plays in the sitting room because he was his favourite writer or if he really preferred people who wrote plays now more and just liked the book because it had a nice cover, was happy to be asked. He became slightly more suspicious when Timothy pursued the topic, asking what his favourite Shakespeare play was, then his second favourite, then the third, not entirely convinced by Timothy's claim that he was 'just interested'. Nonetheless, he brushed it aside, reminding himself that an enquiring mind was always to be encouraged, whatever the dubious reasons why it enquired. Instead, he explained about a king who was a little like Grandpa Turner or Sister Monica Joan and always left him in tears, why he liked _Henry V _at school but never wanted to see it again and what was funny about a man who was a woman (and originally a boy anyway) or a man in yellow stockings. Plucking the complete works from their shelf, he even proved that the stage direction 'Exit, pursued by a bear' really did appear in his favourite play, which led to so energetic a debate over whether being eaten by a bear was sad or funny that the evening eventually became a Hot Chocolate Night. Timothy, after ascertaining that one of the titles on Uncle David's list was his father's third favourite Shakespeare play, thoroughly enjoyed this cultural meander, although he didn't really understand his father's assertion that the unfortunate 'death by hungry bear' incident was both comic and tragic. However, trying to trick his father into a straight answer without giving the game away had been so difficult that he not only felt he deserved the Hot Chocolate, but also wondered whether his father had once had specialist training in how to avoid telling the truth.

Within seconds of the telephone ringing on Thursday, he was perching on an unseen spot on the stairs, hugging himself when he knew from his father's voice that the caller must be Uncle David. Disaster seemed to have occurred when he heard the regretful words 'I don't think we can, I'm sorry. How very unfortunate. It's the day Shelagh returns from Scotland.' but somehow, amid lengthy pauses interspersed with 'Yes, but', 'She'll be terribly tired' and 'I suppose so', he was clearly persuaded at least to consider it. Then came the call up the stairs.

"Timothy! It's Uncle David. He wants to say hello."

Forgetting that he was supposed to be in his bedroom, not waiting on the stairs, Timothy sprinted downstairs. "Hello?"

"Hello Timothy. How are you?"

"Really well," he spluttered.

"You sound breathless. Have you been running a race or something?"

"No, just down the stairs."

He heard a little chuckle. "Well, make sure you don't fall down them. Alright, I'm going to ask you yes/no questions, so you don't give the game away. Understand?"

"Yes."

"Good, here we go. Have you picked a play yet?"

"Yes, it's his – "

Uncle David interrupted. "Don't tell me, in case he overhears. We've got to be stealthy, like super quiet secret spies. Well done on getting one. I'm going to go through the list and when I say the right one, say 'yes', alright? Here we go: _The Verdict_, _Arms and the Man_, _Macbeth, Twelfth Night_ – "

"Yes."

"Ah! The yellow stockings one. Good choice, Timothy, oddly appropriate."

He knew he'd been told only to say yes and no, but Timothy could not let this pass. Whatever criticisms could be made of his father's clothes, he didn't wear yellow stockings. "Why?"

"Well," began Uncle David, "Auntie Louisa will be mortified if this is wrong, but as far as I remember one of the main characters realises at the end of the play that he wants to marry someone he has known for ages because he's been working with them. Sounds a little familiar, doesn't it?"

Timothy laughed. "Yes. How do you know that?"

"Ah, well, your father, our cultural expert, told us all about it when we were at university and his enthusiasm was so memorable I've never forgotten."

Timothy's mouth was as wide and round as his eyes. "Really?"

There was a resounding chortle. "No! Sorry. Couldn't resist pulling your leg. Katherine studied it last year and I remembered from checking her homework. Now," the tone had changed and Timothy guessed what was coming next, "have you talked to Constable Noakes yet about the other matter?"

"No, not yet. I waited and thought about it like you said."

"Good. I'm glad you did. Have you made a decision?"

"Not really. Sort of." He looked around cautiously. His father was engrossed in reading some notes in his study. Dropping his voice to a whisper, he continued. "I looked it up in a book at school. It sounds very exciting. Did you know that Winston Churchill gave a speech after it because of it?"

"Yes, I remember hearing it." He had been in the mess at the base when it was broadcast, huddled with others around the radio, suspecting that soon it would be their turn; trying to perform miracles on the burnt and mutilated remains of boys who now looped and twisted little planes in the air. Earlier that day he had received the message from Louisa that Patrick was safe, that someone they knew had seen him, like Banquo's ghost but real and living. The bull-dog repetition of the words had been like whisky, a sharp, strong heat which stiffened resolve. "It wasn't exciting as such, Timothy."

"I really want to find out about it. I won't upset him. I'll be very careful."

There was a slight pause during which Timothy did not hear David's slender sigh of misgiving. When they had finally seen each other, weeks later and a few days before Patrick would be their Best Man, he still resembled a ghost, saying as little of the evacuation as David did of his forthcoming deployment to India. Only once, after several drinks, did he come close to disclosure, bitterly saying he was no longer sure he was fit to be a doctor. It had been fleeting and poignant, far less alarming than his barely controlled fury years later in the war, and his passion for medicine returned, deepened. But it had been real. "Alright, I'm sure you will. Talk to Constable Noakes. Now, tell me all about your pantomime. I hear you have a splendid role." For the next two minutes Timothy blethered away about rehearsals until Patrick appeared in the study doorway, gesturing to his watch, reminding Timothy that the line needed to be free in case patients were calling, then retrieving the telephone to say a quick goodbye.

The pantomime, originally a source of immense dejection, was proving to be infinitely more fun. Having anticipated social death in a cat costume, each rehearsal provided Lazarus like resurrection after the humiliation of playing a girl at the fete. The great benefit, Timothy immediately saw, was he had no lines to learn; he was astute enough to realise that with a speech to prepare, a violin exam, pantomime rehearsals and his end of term tests all in the next four weeks, he had enough to occupy his time. Instead of lines, he had facial expressions: every eye rolling, eye brow raising, mouth pulling, face gurning tendency which his parents had ever tried to curb was given free rein. The cat in this pantomime was clearly the brains of the Whittington & Cat outfit, miming to Alderman Fitzwarren about the tragic foolishness of his perplexed master and shaking his head to the audience at the sad ignorance of man. Gary Schofield, who was playing Dick, was, in the opinion of Timothy and Jack, not the craftiest cub in the pack and one of the more irritating; thus these sequences required no acting and were particularly enjoyable to rehearse. Jack, who was playing Alderman Fitzwarren, was also prone to rather unpaternal mockery of Peter Williams, the unfortunate who had been cast as Alice, but Timothy, with a certain degree of fellow feeling, refrained. He also had his violin, as part of a long-running joke in the show about 'The Cat and the Fiddle', which saw him playing at regular intervals. Mostly a case of recycling the Christmas carols from last year and playing a jig which was one of his exam pieces, this was another enjoyment.

His happiest moment during rehearsals, however, had come that Wednesday, when he was sent over to the piano to practise with Nurse Miller. The practice itself had been disastrous, as he was incapable of concentrating after she started the rehearsal by surreptitiously slipping two letters into his hand, both with opened envelopes and both addressed to Constable Peter Noakes.

The slimmer letter was from his Uncle Michael. Racing through it, Timothy was a little sorry to discover he knew most of the anecdotes, having been told them by Mum, although there was one which made him see his father in an entirely new light. However, he knew that Granny Parker would provide various other stories of his father's childhood while the second letter made up for any disappointment. It was from Uncle Kenneth.

Over ten pages long, it was by some way the longest letter Timothy had ever received. Admittedly the last two pages were an article about Komodo dragons which Uncle Kenneth had cut out of a magazine, correctly thinking that Timothy would find it interesting. The last time Timothy had stayed at Uncle Kenneth's and Aunt Alice's house, he had watched a programme about Komodo dragons on their newly acquired television set and since then it had been one of their special interests. The other eight pages were story after story about his father. There were certain words he did not understand, which he carefully circled to remind himself to check their meanings later using the pencil he was supposed to use for marking his music, but they did not affect his understanding of the tales. Funny, touching and sometimes highly unlikely, he became more and more convinced of two things: that this letter alone provided more than enough material for several speeches and that Dad had been much more fun in the days before he was Dad. Cynthia, still unsure what exactly she had handed over, soon abandoned the rehearsal to Timothy's bursts of delight.

With answers to all of his letters, inside his head he started to sketch out his speech, seeing the gaps in the story of his father's life. He also started, drip by drip, to ask his father the meanings of the unknown words, never asking more than one meaning at any time in case Dad got wise to his wiles, and never considering that the dictionary might be a safer option. But even this did not make up for the void created by Shelagh's absence that week. It was only three days, she having left early on Wednesday morning, returned while he was at Cubs on Friday evening and gone immediately to her lodgings, and he had missed her with affection but without pain for months when she had been in the sanatorium. But now he was so used to seeing her each day that not doing so was like cutting off his left hand: it was still possible to do everything which mattered, but life was lopsided. On Friday he woke anxious, with no recollection of dreaming, but vividly remembering his mother's funeral. It was only when he found a postcard from Chichester for him while rifling through the post that he calmed. Fretful and unsettled, he asked later if he could put off his monthly weekend with his grandparents in order to spend time with Shelagh before she left again, to be sharply told that it was not only out of the question, but unkind and ungrateful. When Dad reminded him how much he mattered to Granny and how it was particularly important at the moment that Granny didn't think she or Mummy were being forgotten, especially when Granny had been so kind to Shelagh, he was miserably contrite; but a few hours on Saturday morning seemed scant consolation.

He was clearly not alone, though, in craving time with Shelagh. They had been about to depart and share a precious hour together when Sister Julienne returned from a call and began persuading them to stay for one more cup of tea. Sulkily, he had scowled, imploring his father to say no and mutinous when he did not, until he briefly saw the set of his father's mouth and realised he was as riven by the imminent separation as he was. Trying to endure it more cheerfully, he offered to help by carrying the dirty cups through to the kitchen, where he found Sister Julienne stirring the fresh pot and talking to the Noakes family, Peter and Chummy at the table and Fred sleeping in his cradle.

"Thank you for my letters! They were great!" Seeing Peter look quickly at Sister Julienne, he continued. "I told Sister Julienne what we were doing, because I needed to get stories from her about Dad as a doctor. She said it was marvellous. Can we still have tea and lemonade and stories here some afternoon?" he added to Sister Julienne.

"Yes, of course. I am looking forward to it. May I assume then that those very interesting looking letters which arrived for Constable Noakes this week were in fact for you?"

"Yes. From Uncle Michael and Uncle Kenneth. Uncle Kenneth's was the massive one. It was really great. And it had stuff about Komodo dragons too."

"Lots of stuff for your speech, then?" said Peter. Timothy nodded vigorously.

Sister Julienne eyed them all conspiratorially. "Would it be helpful if I were to distract your father and Shelagh for a few minutes now and perhaps you could discuss some of your next strategies?"

This was an unexpected bonus and Timothy beamed. Sister Julienne's commending of their plans was precious to him. He did not know what angels were like, thinking the chubby cherubs on Christmas cards as silly as girls in his class wearing tinsel halos and gowns made out of pillow cases in nativity plays; in his mind, the nearest he could imagine to an angel was Sister Julienne and her approval somehow justified mild fibbing and keeping secrets from his father more than anything else. But he had not imagined that she too would willingly become one of the plotters.

"Rather!" Chummy answered for him.

"Very well!" she twinkled, adding as she left, "When we have our tea will you bring your pig picture? I have a picture I am working on too, about which I would like your advice."

"Yes, I promise!" said Timothy.

"So, what was the best story then, Timothy?" asked Peter.

Timothy pondered. "There were lots of good ones. He crashed a car once by driving on the wrong side of the road, which is quite funny as he's always complaining about bad drivers. Actually, Dad seems to have done lots of things when he was young which he tells me off for doing now. Do you think that's the same with everybody?"

"Probably," Peter snorted, recalling some choice moments he would prefer Fred not to replicate.

"Why? Don't they remember they used to like those things too? It's not very fair."

Chummy remembered her ayah's frequent bemoaning of torn clothes acquired during the types of boisterous games she frequently asked the cubs to stop playing. "Maybe we don't see danger in things we think are super when we're young, but when we're older we do and that's why adults think they're ghastly," she mused. "I'm sure it's because your pa worries about you."

"Hmm," said Timothy, sceptically. "Maybe. I think Dad was much worse than me. He once pretended to be sick when he was student so he could go to a cricket match. I've never done that."

This insight, even more than the poor driving, stunned them both. "I think you should stop now, or I will be quite scandalised!" said Chummy. "How will I be able to look your pa in the face?"

Peter grinned, once again thinking that cultivating Patrick Turner's friendship more than he had previously done would be worthwhile. "I wonder who was playing?"

"Peter!" muttered Chummy under her breath.

Giving the mildest of sniggers, he changed the subject. "So, what do we need to do next?"

Timothy sat down. Now was the time for the conversation he had promised Uncle David he would have. "I've got lots of stuff now and although I've only got a few things about him as a little boy and work, I'll ask Granny Parker tonight and Sister Julienne says she'll help. But I don't have anything about the war yet. Uncle David told me that Dad was at Dunkirk so I looked it up and it sounded," he was about to say exciting, but remembered what Uncle David had said, "as though they were very brave with the little boats, and I want to find out more. Do you still think your friend's brother could help us, Akela?"

For eleven days, Peter had been wondering when Timothy would raise the topic, hoping he had forgotten or decided against it, but never expecting that was the case. "Are you absolutely sure about this, Timothy?"

"Yes. Uncle David didn't say 'Don't' just 'Be careful'. I won't upset Dad. I think it's important. I read that they had to wait for the boats and didn't know if they were coming. Wouldn't it be very brave, taking care of people who were having to do that?"

"Yes," replied Chummy quietly. "It would be very brave. Rather special, really."

"It might be hard to find anything out, especially as we've only got a few weeks," said Peter.

"Oh," said Timothy. "I hadn't thought of that. I thought it would be easy because Dunkirk's famous. Would it be easier if I tried to find out about something from later on in the war? Dad must have done something else later."

"No!" replied Peter, very sharply, remembering the other letter. "No, let's just stick with this, eh?"

Chummy picked up the thread. "What we can do is I'll telephone Hugh and see if he can find out your father's unit and who his senior officer was. If he can, maybe we could all write a letter together to him. It might not work, but _nil desperandum_! How would that be?"

"Yes. Thank you."

"Alright," said Peter. "You'd better head back in before Sister Julienne runs out of distractions."

When Timothy had left they looked at each other. "Better this way than letting him mess around with it all by himself?" asked Peter uncertainly.

"My dear Peter, I'm sure it is. I'll telephone Binkie now. No time like the present," she replied, rising and still thinking, as Peter was, of the letter they had read and re-read.

_Dear Mr. Noakes,_

_I hope you do not mind my writing; I wanted to raise a point regarding Timothy's speech for Patrick's wedding. Firstly, thank you __very__ much for taking Timothy under your wing. It is a great relief to know you are in Poplar guiding him. He is a dear little lad, but takes things very much to heart sometimes and I imagine he has already asked you dozens of questions. Having spent years in lectures sat next to Patrick, who was similarly incessant in his need for information, this is a spectacular case of what goes around coming around. Nevertheless, it is exhausting for the rest of us! _

_The issue I wanted to raise is Patrick's war service, about which Timothy asked in his letter. I do not know how well you know Patrick and my apologies if I am telling you things you know, but he is normally very private about the subject. Patrick served with the RAMC, including deployments in France in 1940 and 1944-45. He was evacuated from Dunkirk and involved in the last wave of the Normandy landings. He was disturbed by both (he questioned his vocation after Dunkirk), but in particular the business at Normandy, which was instrumental in him losing his faith. Personally, I feel Patrick is too protective with Timothy about the war. In 1947 I had a colleague at the London who was in Patrick's unit at Dunkirk and who, while not explicit, gave the impression that Patrick had acted very heroically. As Timothy already knew a little, I told him that Patrick was at Dunkirk, but asked him to consider carefully whether to pursue it. You will be able to judge better as you are seeing him more frequently, but if he is determined to investigate (which I suspect he is), my suggestion is to encourage him to pursue the Dunkirk angle; the romance of it will appeal to him. I have long lost contact with the colleague in Patrick's unit, but his name was Richard Forbes. Both he and Patrick also spoke very highly of their major, although I cannot recall his name. However, please dissuade Timothy from any other research: I suspect that Patrick will be slightly embarrassed if Timothy uncovers his service at Dunkirk, especially if it was distinguished, but he will be furious if Timothy investigates the carnage at Normandy. _

_Finally, Timothy described your wife as Akela, from which I deduce she must run the local Scouts. My deep admiration goes to her! I have two boys (aged eleven and nine) at home and find them more than enough. An entire company would be terrifying. More strength to her elbow, and yours._

_If there is anything I can do to help with 'Operation Best Man', please feel free to contact me or my wife, Louisa. Our telephone number is Hampstead 361. Once again, my sincere thanks. Patrick is entirely in the dark and it should be a lovely surprise for him. I look forward to meeting you and your wife at the wedding._

_With warm regards,_

_Yours sincerely,_

_David Watson_

"Binkie? What ho, Binkie! Chummy here! Yes. Thank you, he's marvellous, a wonderful little chap. Thank you so much for the hat and bootees – absolutely super. Fred. Well, really Freddie or Little Bean at the moment. I'm actually calling because I need to ask your brother Hugh a huge favour on behalf of another wonderful little chap called Timothy Turner. Here's the fix he's in."


	12. Chapter 12

They had drunk so many cups of tea that day that neither wished to imbibe a drop, yet there was no other place but the station tea room where they could sit and wait, their eyes tracing each other's features until they were memorised and trying to talk. And thus they sat, the milk separating into chilly spirals in the cups, the slice of cake cursorily picked at until it crumbled like rock.

"You should eat something," he said. "It's a long journey."

"I couldn't possibly after that lunch. I think Joan thinks there's still rationing in Scotland!" They both gave half-hearted smiles at the feeble joke. "I'll get something in the dining car later, maybe. When do you have to be on duty at the maternity hospital?"

He checked his watch. "An hour and a half."

"You should go."

"Another few minutes. If I can't see your train off, perhaps I can at least see you onto it." He had spent the day sharing her with everybody else. Now, for a few moments, until the last moment, he wanted her for himself.

All day time had unravelled. His plans had been simple: dropping her suitcase off early would leave time for a family walk or a trip to the Lyons Tearoom before the drive north-west to the Parkers. After a prompt lunch there and a quick trip to a jewellers on Portobello Road to select their wedding rings, they could wander lover-like, anonymous and free, maybe pausing at the shop where he suspected he would find the object he wished to give her as a wedding present, but would prefer her to choose. But every person had claimed their right: the nuns and nurses, the Parkers, the jeweller's wife, Timothy. While he did not blame Timothy wanting to postpone the separation, the jeweller had been an unexpected blow. He had eyed Patrick curiously when they entered, but it was only when he was examining the size of Shelagh's fingers and recognised her engagement ring that he recalled: a widowed doctor with a son, who sought a ring to offer a nurse who was recovering from TB. He was kindly little man, an immigrant and struggling, Patrick suspected, but meticulous in his work. His wife, anxious to hear each detail of the proposal and their plans, was similarly sweet and it was impossible to rebuff her hospitality while her husband finalised adjustments to be made to Shelagh's ring. They sat there, drinking tea and answering questions, both knowing the little time they had together was draining away.

"I'll offer to do next Saturday as well, which will free up the weekends next month."

"As long as the one when your friend Kenneth's here is free."

"Hmm," he replied. How to raise the suggestion that after hours stuck on a train and days when they had neither seen nor talked to one another, rather than a quiet meal together she might prefer driving to Hampstead to dine with his friends, two witty and opinionated macaws with three similarly loquacious children and a Welsh eccentric liable to start raving about the finer points of open heart surgery and use whatever was on his dinner plate for demonstrations, had been beyond him. It had been she who made possible the topic, surprising him that morning by casually saying she wished she could meet Kenneth given all Louisa had told her, but feared there would be little time at the wedding. He was still uncomfortable as he told her about the possible dinner at David's, although she responded most enthusiastically. It baffled him what Louisa might have said; most descriptions of Kenneth, even by those who loved him, left people keen to avoid the experience. It was only in person that the charm behind the oddness became apparent. "We don't have to, you know. I'd love you to meet Kenneth and I'm sure you'll like him, although he is an acquired taste. But if you're too tired after the journey, you'd only have to say."

"Oh, wheest!" she replied. "I like acquired tastes. There were plenty enough in the Order! It's dinner. What am I going to do on a train except rest anyway?" Patrick knew nothing of the urgent message waiting at her lodgings on Friday night, asking her to call Hampstead 361 on her return. In the past few hours, however, Shelagh had frequently chuckled over Louisa's contorted explanation about a stag night which involved covert letters, clandestine messages and Chummy's husband as messenger boy and her pleas that Shelagh would persuade Patrick to play along, as it would upset Timothy so much if it all fell through, while, frankly, David would sulk for a month. It amused her, yet it touched her; was there any soul in the world, she wondered, except Patrick or maybe Sister Julienne, who would put themselves to such discomfort for her? Close to sighing now, she suspected that she would feel the loss of a quiet evening with Patrick and Timothy far more when she returned; still, she was happy to be the oil which allowed the wheels their smooth progress.

"We'll see," he said. "I'll keep it free at any rate. And I must admit I'd love to see Ken. It's been too long. Timothy would too." He paused, undecided whether to burden her with concerns he was still unsure about.

She leaned across the table and took his hand. "What is it? You've got a funny, pensive look."

Patrick cleared his throat. "Do you think Timothy was behaving strangely today?"

"Not particularly. Why?"

"I don't know. Something about him this week. He's been a bit out of sorts."

"How d'you mean?"

It was hard to explain. Unusual questions, hiding things when he popped in to wish him goodnight and a bizarre, if enjoyable, discussion about Shakespeare? They were silly things, inconsequential, yet there had been the tearfulness the previous night and an exhausted nerviness over breakfast the same day. Would he have noticed any of them had it not been for the others? Patrick worried that he would not. "I don't know. Just strange. We had a very peculiar conversation the other day, about Shakespeare of all things."

Shelagh covered her mouth to hide her expression. Illuminated by Louisa, she was fairly sure why the topic had been raised. "Anything in particular about Shakespeare?"

"Nothing, really. Why I liked him and what my favourite play was. Nonsense, I suppose. And he keeps asking for the meanings of the weirdest words."

This she could not explain. "Such as? Was there any link between them."

Patrick reflected for a moment. "Mostly medical, not all. Cadaver. Botulism. Scurvy, if you'll believe it! Other things too. Whether they drive on the left in France was the strangest. Things like that."

"Maybe he came across them in a book or something. Scurvy might have been mentioned in that adventure book he's reading. I'm sure you're worrying about nothing."

"Perhaps. He was a bit teary yesterday. He isn't usually." Patrick did not mention why the tears had started, still blaming himself for almost making him cry by snapping at his request to put off his grandparents. He had ladled on the guilt he felt himself when he imagined how his joy might magnify the Parkers' grief. Timothy's reaction, though, had been startlingly unusual.

The amusement within her died. She could not imagine him crying or ever remember him doing so; even at the funeral his face had been set with resolute, manly sturdiness. All she had seen that day in Timothy was capriciousness, if anything; superficially boisterous and burning with energy, but over-tired. She had put it down to the secret about the stag party. Keeping it secret would challenge a boy as guileless as Timothy. She thought she was starting to know him, but had discerned none of what Patrick spoke. "I would never have guessed. I didn't see that at all," she faltered.

"You're probably right. I'm probably worrying about nothing." He looked up when she said nothing, watching her pained examination of the table. "Shelagh?" Although she looked up, she did not quite meet his eye. "Don't," he said softly. "Stop thinking whatever you're thinking. _I_ don't know if it's anything and I've known him since before he was born when he used to kick whenever I talked to Elizabeth's bump."

Her face was still tense with frowning however. "What if it's because of me, Patrick?" There was something pathetic in the tiny shrug of her shoulders. "Us? This?"

"It's not. I'm absolutely certain of that."

His reassurance was quiet, and so, so firm, an absolute conviction. "Completely certain?"

She was testing him in two ways. He smiled. He understood. "Couldn't be more certain." She laughed gently and he ventured the one interpretation which had made sense to him when he could not sleep the previous night, saying through Timothy what was true for himself. "It's not you, except perhaps simply that he missed you and he's going to miss you."

There had been so many partings in both of their lives, always borne with cheerfulness; both felt the ridiculousness of distress at a separation so short it was hardly worth the letters both knew they would write. Yet when she realised in the middle of the afternoon that she did not even have a photograph of him or he one of her and, most uncharacteristically, burst into tears, neither had thought it absurd. Without speaking, he had ransacked his wallet to give her the picture of Timothy he kept in it, then gently teased her that perhaps photography had made its way to Scotland given it was 1958 and she could maybe have a picture taken while she was there and bring it home for him. Behind their pain lay the shadow partings, those that were for longer, with greater risk and sometimes forever; above all the last one, where all which they felt now had drifted in an impossible silence between them.

"Don't cry," he said as she discreetly wiped her handkerchief across her eyes and nose. "It will all get a bit _Brief Encounter _and 'there's something in my eye' and 'let me help, I'm a doctor' and so on." Shelagh gave a polite titter, unlike her normal bubbling giggle. Patrick was not deceived. "You've never seen it, have you?"

"No," she admitted bashfully.

He was perplexed. "It came out years before you joined the Order. Surely?"

"Yes," she replied, "but I think I was a wee bit prudish about it. I didn't think it was quite proper, being about adultery. Those were the days before I was confronted with the real world in Poplar!"

It had been the first film he and Elizabeth had seen after they were married. It had moved him in its restraint, while she had loved it, even though she sternly told him that when he was a boring, middle-aged doctor he wasn't allowed to have affairs with anyone except her. She had gone to see it again, twice, once with him, once with her sister, crying by the end every time. "What was the last film you did see?"

She thought for a moment. "One with James Stewart, where a suicidal man was saved by an angel."

"_It's a Wonderful Life._"

"Yes. I liked it very much. I went with two of the other nurses I trained with. That must have been in 1947 or 48?"

He shook his head. How much she had missed. "When you get back, we'll go to the pictures. Add it to the list, sweetheart." In the past few weeks their list of things they would do had grown and grown, modest, realistic fancies and absurd dreams added with equally merry abandon. "Have you ever seen a film in colour? Not an animated film, an ordinary one."

"Yes," she protested. "My father took me to me to the Dominion to see _The Wizard of Oz _for my thirteenth birthday."

"Ouch," he said. She raised her eyebrows quizzically. "I saw it at the barracks in between deployments. I must have been at least twenty-nine."

She chortled. "You're just an ancient relic, aren't you!"

He preferred her laughter, even in mockery of him. Dismay did not sit well upon her. The station was grimy and smoky, where grim faced crowds barged across platforms to crush into trains and escape, ignoring newly arrived, forlorn lost souls who marvelled at the cruel majesty of the capital they had journeyed to in hope of better lives or new beginnings. But her laughter was brightness, the one point of freshness and rejuvenation around him. "Shall we?" Picking up her suitcase, he patiently waited while she collected her handbag, putting on his hat as she took his arm.

The train was not due to leave for some time still. Whether it was Patrick's quiet word to the porter or Shelagh's modest manner, the porter directed them to her carriage, opening the door so she could enter and settle herself for the journey ahead. Patrick was standing below her on the platform when he gave her the case, their hands fumbling in the exchange. It had been a different suitcase, but it was oddly like another time, another parting.

She spoke softly. "Do you remember how our fingers brushed against each other when you gave me my suitcase after we arrived at the sanatorium?"

"Not really. Vaguely." There was an fragment of the memory in his mind, pale and indistinct.

"I felt it all the way to the door, the exact place where we'd touched, like you'd burnt me."

He shook his head. "I don't remember that. I'm sorry. I remember watching you while you walked away. I kept standing by the car, even after you'd gone in and shut the door. I was afraid it might be the last time I'd ever see your face and was willing you to look back one more time, to look back just once at me. But you never did."

"I was afraid you might be. That's why I never turned." Although her eyes were clear and tearless, her voice quivered.

The genteel chaos of the platform was too public a place for so private a couple, but taking off his hat and taking her hand, Patrick stepped up into the carriage doorway beside her and kissed her. No wild display of passion, they simply rested their inside lips against one another's. He did not relinquish her hand; she rested the other one against his chest; and when they slowly released their lips, they rested their foreheads against each other, their eyes closed, and listened to each other breathing. Yet when they opened their eyes and he stepped down again, the moment seemed as intimate to her as any they had shared.

There was no need for the words, but he added them nonetheless. "I love you."

She nodded. "Two weeks. That's all. And I'll be back."

"Timothy and I'll be here waiting for you. Don't get the wrong train."

He had wanted to make her smile, genuinely smile, before she left, to carry the playfulness of her voice with him; and he had succeeded. "I got _one_ wrong bus, _once_!"

Patrick chuckled. "Have a wonderful time."

Just as he started to let go of her hand to leave, she bent down and tenderly kissed him upon his cheekbone, closing her eyes as she whispered the same words he had just said to her. Then she straightened up and after one last look, he walked away, straightening his head as he put on his hat again. She watched the brown coat's slight swing, guessing from the angular moves of his arm that he had taken out his cigarettes and lighter. She imagined the line of his spine and sagging curve of his shoulders as his back retreated, becoming smaller and smaller, beyond the end of her carriage.

"Patrick!"

"Yes?"

The moment he turned, she realised she had nothing to say. She did not even know why she had cried out, perhaps only because she wanted to call his name. "What _is_ your favourite Shakespeare play?" she asked, stupidly.

He started to light the cigarette as he answered. "_The Winter's Tale_. It's hopeful. Whatever's happened, forgive people and there's always a way back." He smiled. "I'll see you in two weeks."

Now he was marginally beyond the porter with his trolley. Still she watched, willing him to respond to her need, and then, just before the end of the next carriage, he did, by turning back to look, once more, at her.


	13. Chapter 13

_Dear Shelagh, _wrote Patrick, then stopped. It was not the first time he had used the writing pad since the last of the letters to the sanatorium; only a week ago there had been the letter written to accompany a Christmas card to Tom Anderson and his wife in Melbourne, slightly longer than the previous year's note, but still staggeringly brief given its attempts to explain that their card, already criss-crossing the globe, was remiss in its direction only to 'Patrick and Timothy'. Writing once more to her, he expected comparisons to cloud his mind, but the blankness created was akin to fog. Then he had known all he wanted to declare, how his brokenness without her would fill the pages with words so passionate the paper itself seemed to burn, were he permitted. Instead he had hidden behind mild inquiries after her health and pale phrases: 'Dear Sister Bernadette', 'With very best wishes, Yours, P. J. Turner, 'With warm regards, Yours, Patrick Turner'. Even signing his name, which he had never introduced himself to her as, had felt an imposition. In the last one, despairing, he wrote 'Yours affectionately, Patrick Turner' regretting it the moment the letter was posted. Now, everything was permitted; the privilege was his, his alone. Yet he did not know how to begin. Even 'Dear' seemed weak when none was more dear to him. Should he begin again with 'Dearest'? Sipping the whisky at his elbow while static crackled across the concert on the radio, he stared at the page, wondering what advice she would give him were she next to him. Then he snorted, knowing exactly what she would say: tell him off for even considering wasting a sheet of his best writing paper when he had written only an address, a date and two words, after which he would tease her for her Scottish tight-fistedness and she would pout and when they started to kiss, they would still be laughing and it would feel like a hiccup against his mouth. He knew it exactly, as though it had occurred in front of him. Taking another sip, he continued:

_A certain postcard of Edinburgh arrived this morning, much to Timothy's delight! It is now in pride of place on his bedroom wall and he was immensely smug to have heard from you first, quite apart from the pleasure of a card from a new place. (Timothy insists from a new country, having been infected by Kenneth's tedious 'Wales is not England' lectures.) Genuinely, it made his week. He has been quite gloomy since you left, although he had a good weekend with Joan and Eric, Eric having had a fairly lucid period on Sunday. I suspect we were both right on Saturday: the prospect of your absence had upset him, but essentially, as you rightly said, I was worrying over nothing. He seems more settled, with no more odd questions at any rate. As for the letter you wrote on the train from Edinburgh to Aberdeen, which arrived in this evening's post, its recipient was – and is – every bit as happy as the recipient of the postcard, and feels so very lucky. I hope the note I wrote on Sunday has arrived. _

_Another piece of post arrived today which was as precious to me as your letter. I now do have some photographs of you, as, not before time, your paperwork arrived back from the sanatorium, complete with your final set of X-Rays. This did remind me that we need to get you registered with someone else – would you like me to get this process started now? I imagine you will be very busy when you return. Timothy and I are registered with Michael Reid and he and his family are registered with me, although in practice we usually take care of our own families unless prescriptions are needed. Would you be happy with that? He is an excellent doctor, as I'm sure you don't need me to tell you. Similarly, I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how much I would like it if you found time to have a proper photograph taken while you are in Scotland. Much as I appreciate the joy of gazing at your internal organs (and contemplating those X-Rays was a very great joy, my darling), I don't think they will quite do for carrying around in my wallet! _

_Unfortunately, there is another piece of (literal) housekeeping which may have to be put in progress before you return. I spoke to Len Warren on Monday about getting our bedroom redecorated before the wedding, as we discussed. His proposed charge is very low, which I put down to gratitude to you, however unfortunately the only time the work can be fitted in is in the evenings at the end of next week, which means selecting the paper and paint in your absence. I'm so sorry and if you would prefer to postpone and finalise the choices yourself, of course we will. However, if you'd like him to proceed do you have any preferences about paper or colour? It is a rather dull mushroom at the moment and I thought maybe something brighter? Mr. Warren suggested yellow or maybe a warm blue._

He read back the paragraph, with an derisory little furl of the nostrils at the last words. He had no idea what a 'warm blue' meant. Elizabeth had been the artistic one, who could pair unlikely objects and colours so they made their home rich, even in the days when they had nothing. It had been a little romantic notion he had had, hoping to make the room fresh and special for Shelagh, knowing that she would pass her bridal tryst there, and brush away the dust of death and loss lingering in its shadows. These days, who knew who was supposed to make a home for whom, whether he should be making the home to lay before her feet, or she make the home from the house? He had hoped they would do it together, fumbling through decisions which would make his house hers. Now he seemed to wrest away from her the promise he had made that she could change the house as she wished. She knew him, though, in ways that seemed impossible, reading nuances in him he did not always know were there; would she not see the sincerity in the black ink and know the choice was still, and always would be, hers? She had before when the words were far more elliptical. He must believe and trust she could.

_Mr. Warren was asking warmly after you, very keen to know when you are returning to work. His wife is now expecting number fifty seven or whatever it is and he is hoping you will be their midwife once again. More accurately he said he hoped 'your missus'll be back and see Conchita through it'. They had a preliminary check on Monday with the temporary replacement Sister Julienne has got hold of, Rachel Simpson. Just as Jenny Lee did, she found the Warrens fairly eye-opening! Are the Warrens a test case given to all newcomers to see if they are up to the job?_

He wondered how much he should tell her about what had occurred at teatime after Nurse Simpson returned from the call. The start was decidedly entertaining, almost irresistible, the ending bittersweet. Yet as he had pondered it in the past two days, the sweetness in its kernel had grown until it became more than an anecdote: the bridge to making peace with himself, leaving him more fit to be the man who would stand by an altar waiting for Shelagh to come to him.

It was Sister Julienne he stopped in to see, exchanging diagnostic notes about two elderly brothers, the older spry but half-blind, the younger crippled, both struggling with bronchitis in a flat riddled with damp in a building from which tenants were being steadily scattered. As much as drugs and treatment, they needed affection. She had persuaded him to stay for tea and they were walking down the hall, discussing what options there were for supporting men who asked for so little from a society which was rattling past them, when they heard the voices raised from the kitchen.

"Which one's Sister Bernadette?" asked Nurse Simpson, testily. Although she was experienced and able, Patrick had not completely warmed to her when he met her a few days earlier. Perhaps it was sentimental, but in general practice he would rather a Cynthia, breaking her heart for a grieving patient, or a Chummy, breaking every piece of equipment in her earnestness to care, than sterile, efficient competency. This tone in her voice did not endear her to him any further.

"Why?" asked Trixie. It was not evasive, yet the voice glittered with protectiveness.

Nurse Simpson sighed heavily. "I just had the most extraordinary call, with some Spanish woman who has had heaven knows how many children and whose husband turned up in the middle and started pawing her. He can't even speak to her!"

There was a general explosion of mirth. "Conchita Warren," said Cynthia.

"I delivered her last one. I felt exactly the same when I first met her," offered Jenny sympathetically.

"Did he spend the whole time telling you 'Sister Bernadette says this' and 'Sister Bernadette says that' and 'That's not what Sister Bernadette does'?"

Patrick smiled to himself in gentle pride, while Jenny answered. "A few times."

"Didn't it make you want to scream?"

"No," said Jenny, adding honestly. "Well, it made me feel a bit stupid, but I was saying that I should test for toxaemia when she couldn't possibly have it, so I was being quite stupid."

"Hmm. She's sounds a terrible know-it-all! Which one is she? Is she the big one?"

Such was his desire to laugh, Patrick was in pain resisting it, wondering both what Shelagh would make of being mistaken for Sister Evangelina and what Sister Evangelina would make of being described as 'the big one'. What he achieved, Trixie, Jenny, Cynthia and Jane could not.

"Ask Dr. Turner," said Trixie, just after the spluttering of giggles had ceased, which initiated a fresh eruption.

"Why?" asked Rachel Simpson. "Does she tell him what to do as well?"

"Not much now. I suspect it's going to come with the territory later on!" Trixie's voice became higher and higher as the sentence progressed until she was almost incoherent by the end, even without the patchwork of noise from the others smothering her.

Calming herself, Cynthia tried to explain. "I think the person you're thinking of is Sister Evangelina. Sister Bernadette isn't here, as she's convalescing from illness. And she's not Sister Bernadette any more. She left the Order a while ago. Her name's Shelagh. You've probably heard us mention her."

The gleeful intake of breath started before Cynthia finished. "Isn't Shelagh the name of the doctor's fiancée? No! The doctor's fiancée used to be one of the nuns? Lord, that's a bit of a scandal, isn't it!"

It was less scurrilous than the Peabody Buildings, but his frustrated bolt of shame was exactly the same.

"Not really," said Trixie sharply. "I don't know what you mean." Rachel began some response, already slightly daunted, but Trixie gave her short shrift and allowed her to go no further than her opening word. "Two thoroughly good and honourable people with more kindness and integrity between them than most towns can muster up, not to mention intelligence, one a widowed man, the other a single woman, have fallen in love and decided to get married. I don't see what's remotely scandalous about that. In fact, we all think it's beautiful. And we don't use words like 'Lord' as oaths here. Pass me the Swiss Roll, Jenny."

He had known Nurse Franklin some years and he respected her. The glibness was all a show; it was the compassion and the iron will which were real. It was something to see himself and Shelagh through her eyes, delineated by a tongue which was so frequently biting. It loved wit and gossip, but loved truth more and protected those she loved.

"If you would still like to stay for tea Dr. Turner, I suspect you will have a defender," said Sister Julienne mildly. She was smiling; nonetheless he was reluctant to follow her into the kitchen, embarrassed by what he had heard and even by its vigour. He saw no alternative, however.

"Dr. Turner!" cried Trixie. "Are you staying for tea? Mrs. B has outdone herself today!" She was vamping, as she always did. It was easy to dismiss: her earlier remarks had been a mirror to him, showing him the true reflection of the man she believed he was. Not only she, he realised. For twenty minutes the band of girls flustered around him, filling his plate and cup and gaily asking endless questions about Shelagh and the wedding. Warmth encircled him with attentions so ostentatious they were faintly ridiculous and he began to pity Nurse Simpson, quietly sat at a chilly corner of the table; for it was not only the young nurses who marked him as their own.

Sister Julienne was far too gracious ever to descend to crude partisanship, yet she too stood resolutely by him, with such charm and poise that made her allegiance the most crushing of all. "You must be missing her already," she murmured gently under the cover of anecdote Trixie was telling at the other end of the table. He briefly acknowledged he was. "And Timothy just as much, I imagine?"

"Yes, very much so."

"She has always been terribly fond of him. I remember a treasured drawing which he produced for her of the two of them, which you 'carried around for weeks', was it not?" He wondered how far she guessed that it had not only been absent-mindedness which led to the picture's long sojourn in the briefcase. "It is lovely watching them together, Dr. Turner," she added, suddenly finding herself speaking into a pocket of silence where all faces watched them. With dignity, she smiled to Rachel Simpson, as though they had not overheard the previous discussion. "I was commenting to Dr. Turner how charming it is seeing Shelagh, his fiancée, with his son, Timothy, Nurse Simpson. She has always been particularly skilled with our younger patients, however there is a very, very special bond there. I sometimes wonder if it is because she lost her own mother when she was very young." She turned once more to Patrick. "Shelagh's niece is named after her mother, is she not?"

"Yes, Agnes."

"Is Shelagh's brother-in-law going to give her away at the wedding?" asked Cynthia after refilling his cup.

"No," he replied, uncertain what to reveal.

"I am," said Sister Julienne. "And I truly am very honoured to have been asked, Dr. Turner." Amid the squeals of pleasure, he still heard a voice clearly and distinctly, Jenny's, giving its involuntary response on behalf of them all: 'That's perfect'.

The community of Nonnatus were a strange family and this was a familial instinct, to huddle around one of its daughters. It was more than that however. They had spoken of integrity and decency when they did not know he was there and their rejoicing was not just momentary glitter to shut out the world's dark criticisms. They genuinely saw no reason why he did not deserve what he had been given, nor any reason for censure, truly considering it as Trixie had described it: beautiful. There would be no condemnation. Behind them stood David and Louisa, Kenneth, the Parkers, his brother Michael, Shelagh's sister and brother-in-law, united in simple, happy joy. It touched him, not to the same extent, but in exactly the same way as Shelagh's letter had, which had been waiting for him when he returned home an hour ago. He did not feel he had earned her words of love and faith, still struggling to understand why she had chosen him. Yet there they had been.

For weeks he had waited for denunciation which had not come, except in pockets of spite from those who did not know them. He had wondered why he was so sure it would, worrying that he had become so warped by experience he was afraid of trusting love, not hers or his, but Love itself. But it was not love he could not accept; it was grace. Trixie's simple stridency when recounting his story, the nurses' embracing of the romance, Sister Julienne's acceptance, above all Shelagh's gentle affirmations of love, all were based on gracious acceptance of what had happened; and that was what made them joyful and whole. He had never blamed fate when Elizabeth became ill, never believed he should be immune from pain or complained that it was not fair, but simply accepted it as what was, to be endured as best as could. Now he must accept fate's kindness, not its randomness. There was no point in grappling with the unfairness of why he was gifted this second chance when so many others were not, expecting himself to be punished. Instead, he must learn not only to love and give, but to receive with joy and finally let go of fear.

He wanted to explain to her, but on paper could not make sense of this still unfolding epiphany. Picking up his pen again, he resolved not to tell the story now, but wait until she was sat beside him. Pausing for a moment, he wondered if she would know herself, instantly, that something had happened without him saying. Then he started to write again. _A propos of Nurse Simpson's experience with the Warrens, please remind me when you're home to tell you about how Sister Evangelina was mistaken for you and what happened when Nurse Franklin became St. George attacking a dragon (Not Sister Evangelina, I hasten to add) during afternoon tea after this mistake. Part of it will amuse you and the other part will move you, I hope, but is better told in person._

_Work has been desperately busy and I only got home from my calls an hour ago (at half nine). We had vaccinations going on at the clinic yesterday, which meant it was utter carnage. My own cases were fairly straightforward, apart from one batty consultation with our favourite lunatic patients from the past year, the Carter twins. Twenty years of practice and a St Thomas' degree are insufficient with them for me to be able diagnose that a rash is a rash, not some medieval nonsense from their mother's book. Odd women. That said, I think I owe them something. It was during that delivery when you took on Meg Carter after she manhandled me that I first suspected you possibly felt something for me and realised what exactly I was starting to feel for you. In all honesty, when she slapped you it was the closest I have ever come in my life to considering hitting a woman. Of course, your confessing of your criminal past during our post-match cigarette was obviously an added inducement._

_Apart from the clinic, it has been typical winter busyness. The weather has been filthy although no smog yet, so I have had an epidemic of 'itises': bronchitis, laryngitis and arthritis seem to be taking up about 70% of my time, although thankfully no hepatitis. (As yet. I have my suspicions about one case, but the blood sample is still being tested.) As for mastitis, Nurse Lee is dealing with that case._

_I must confess I am quite glad to be busy, however. I miss you very, very much, my dear, as does Timothy, something we are not alone in: there hasn't been a single time I have seen any of Nonnatus residents without them asking me to hand on their love, while I believe Sister Julienne intends to write to you herself. Nurse Noakes also asked me to remind you to bring back your mother's veil with you, while reassuring me that you will be 'as pretty as a princess' in your wedding dress. _Writing the phrase, he started scouring his memory, trying to recall each time he had heard it recently, every time accompanied by coy laughter or giggles. _I may be wrong, but I am fairly certain that every single one of the nurses has used that identical phrase to me in the past few days. I don't know if it is code between you all, but I am handing her message on. May I also add that I have no doubt you will be far prettier, although I am not a particularly qualified judge as I'm no expert on ladies' fashion and I think you'd look beautiful in a potato sack. I suspect I'm partial._

_I hope you're having a good time and that your nephew's birthday goes well. I will keep my fingers crossed that the repair kit hits the mark. Please hand on my warm regards to Elspeth and Robert and keep having a wonderful time. If you are reading this on Saturday morning, as I hope, it is only one week before we see each other again and only three until you are shackled to me for the rest of your days. In comparison with that, a number of days we can count on our fingers isn't really very long!_

Now he reached the end, he turned back to the beginning and re-read it. It was much shorter than hers and its outlining of business matters dull. But he knew he was no poet and what they chattered about again and again in their private moments were odd and funny moments of their shared lives. All he had to say which was truly important could be said in only a few words and – the greatest miracle – he was allowed to say. As he recalled, once more, the other letters, he knew that all it took was two phrases and the slightest twist of the customary way those former letters had ended. Quickly, smiling, he wrote them.

_With all my love, _

_Your Patrick_


	14. Chapter 14

**Sorry this has taken a while. I've done a lot of rewriting of this section and I'm very nervous about posting it. I've changed the rating as well, although this is as T as it's going to get. I really hope everyone doesn't feel it's out of place and let down, as I value the reviews, PMs and general support more than I can say. On a lighter note, apologies if it gets a bit Scottish in places!**

"Chummy, you're a genius!" declared Trixie.

"You really think it will do?"

From where she was perched on a chair at the end of the table, Trixie nodded, blowing smoke into the air. Cynthia, Jane and Jenny were still fingering the dress, letting its waves sweep over their hands. It was not finished: buttons still needed to be affixed, edges sewn up. But there was something magical in the pale cloth and as Jenny held it up against herself, smoothing the skirt down, the room filled with appreciative murmurs.

"It's beautiful, Chummy," said Jenny. "How on earth did you manage it from just some photographs from a magazine?"

Chummy adjusted her glasses, fidgeting modestly. "Much easier than it looks really. There's not really very much of Shelagh and she's got an awfully good figure. It's not like making clothes for a great galumphing carthorse like me. The basic design's quite simple and then it's just a matter of making the two layers. It's the cloth that really that made it. That lace is extraordinary."

Jenny slipped her hand under the top layer, feeling the run of the silk she had discovered under her palm, while snowflakes of lace teased above. "I wonder where Sister Monica Joan got it from," she said.

"I wonder if it's legal! Can you imagine a wedding if the police had to come rushing in and confiscate the bride's dress?" joked Trixie.

She cocked an eyebrow provocatively at a sighing Cynthia; however the next voice was not Cynthia berating her, but Jane illuminating them. "I think it was from her family. She said she remembered her mother with it and it was in a drawer with other things from them." Once again all eyes returned to the dress. The latticework of the outer layer was delicate and ageless, a heavy cream but yet unyellowed. Chummy wondered whether the lace had been intended for another wedding gown, perhaps even further back part of a dress in which a girl would be presented as a debutante. Then it had lain unused for decades, next to a bright turquoise brocade, now resurrected and proudly hung in her own wardrobe upstairs, renounced along with the glittering world by a woman drawn by God to filthy streets.

"It's really lovely," said Cynthia. It hung lightly over the thin silk, veiling it, apart from the sleeves where it alone would cling and hint, tapering to buttoned cuffs around slim wrists. "Do you think she'll mind? About the sleeves?"

Chummy looked troubled. "Yes, I wondered about that. The lace is fairly thick though. You don't think it's over-revealing or 'Look at me now', do you?"

"Don't be absurd, Chummy. She'd hardly be marrying him if she still wanted to dress like a nun and it's not as though you've proposed she wiggles down the aisle like Marilyn Monroe in some slinky Parisian negligée! Sister Evangelina on the scooter's more provocative. She does show her ankles off, after all!" Trixie added, with naughty satisfaction. "It's positively sultry!"

Cynthia and Jane giggled, while Chummy began to chuckle. Jenny, however, was quiet, absorbed by a vivid memory. It was Chummy who noticed.

"Do you disagree, Jenny? Do you think she won't like them?"

Jenny shook her head. "No, I don't think she won't like them." She remembered what she thought she had seen. "I think she might like them more than we think she will."

She had not meant to say anything, but Trixie was cannier. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing."

Trixie peeked mischievously at her. "You know something, Jenny Lee, something you're not telling us." As Jenny started to colour, she gave a high burst of laughter. "You do! Spill the beans."

"I can't."

"Oh!" she sighed in exasperation. "Stop being boring. We're all exhausted, Chummy's been working herself to a shadow,"

"Steady on!" put in Chummy.

"Well, almost a shadow, producing this fashion masterpiece and I might be called out at any moment. What is it? It can't be that terrible given who we're talking about."

It was tempting to tell, maybe to find a way into the answers to questions she had asked herself repeatedly long before a glimpse at a piece of clothing disturbed her. "No, not terrible, of course not," said Jenny. She wished she were in her room, perhaps in her dressing gown. Then it would feel less like cheaply picking over the secrets of others; only a confidence being shared, followed by a question both naïve and born of bitter experience. They were all watching her, avidly: Trixie bright-eyed in excitement, Jane caught between attention and dreaminess, Chummy pensive now. Cynthia, refilling her mug, she could not see. She started slowly. "Do you remember how I helped Shelagh unpack her suitcase last week?"

"Yes, what about it?" asked Cynthia, sitting down in between her and Trixie. In her face Jenny read apprehension.

"We were hanging up some clothes she didn't want to take to Scotland. They were mostly old, awful looking things she must've had before she joined the Order, apart from one skirt, which was incredibly pretty. I started suggesting different looks she could try with it. But there was another piece of clothing in the suitcase and while I was talking, she hid it in a drawer in the wardrobe."

"Hid it?" Cynthia frowned.

"Not hid, I suppose. She didn't want me to see it though. Except I had already, not completely, but a little bit, because I dislodged it when I was taking out the skirt."

"What was it? Did you see?" asked Trixie, gleefully.

Jenny looked around the room. "Are any of the nuns around?"

"No, of course not," encouraged Trixie. "Sister Julienne's on a call and the others have gone to bed. What was it?"

Jenny stopped and clung to her mug with both hands, looking down at the table. It felt hideously like gossip. "I think it was a nightgown. I didn't see it properly," she began, halting, "but it was silky and it wasn't provocative as such, but almost." She was awkward at what she was insinuating. "I think she'd bought it for her wedding night." Uncomfortably she looked up; Cynthia had looked down now, but Jane and Chummy were still watching her. In neither face was shock, only mild uncertainty. At what, she could not tell.

"And?" Trixie shrugged. "Good for her!"

"Trixie!"

"Honestly Jenny, what do you think they're going to do on their wedding night? Gaze into each other's eyes and discuss the new autoclave while playing a game of Scrabble?"

"But he's Dr. Turner!" She looked at the blank faces around the table, concerned only by her bemusement. She didn't know how to explain what it was that disconcerted her about them and which she could not unravel. "He's – They've known each other so long and she's given up her whole life and he's just Dr. Turner." It was not entirely what she intended and she felt its cruel injustice even before an outcry arose around the table. "I don't mean that. He's kind and pleasant and a very good doctor, but – ."

"Don't be horrid, Jenny!" interrupted Trixie. "I think Dr. Turner looks quite dashing when he's scrubbed up, like he has been so much more in the past month," she added with a twinkle. "Older men are much more polished and intriguing."

Jenny thought of Gerald and the dust of her lost years, her heart wasting itself on an intrigue which caused nothing but pain and which still reached out to tangle her, while Jimmy waited and waited until it was too late. And she said nothing.

"Chaps, should we really be talking about this?" questioned Chummy, uneasily.

Cynthia's hand covered Jenny's. "That's not quite what you meant, is it Jenny?" Jenny shook her head. "What then?"

"He's Dr. Turner and she's Sister Bernadette!"

"Shelagh," interrupted Trixie.

"She used to be Sister Bernadette though."

"You don't think it's wrong, do you?" said Cynthia, troubled.

"No," replied Jenny, quickly. "No, not that at all. They'd never do anything wrong. I think it's beautiful and it's so romantic and they look so happy together."

"It seems natural, doesn't it? She looks so well and he looks so much younger. The first time I saw them together after Sister Julienne told us it seemed obvious. I wondered how I'd never noticed it before," said Cynthia kindly.

"But that's what I don't understand," Jenny burst out, passionately. "There wasn't anything to notice before and it wasn't always like that! How does it change? How can she go from being a nun and his colleague and friend for all these years and then suddenly not be? How does he go from treating her like a nun to seeing her as something so different?"

"I always thought it would be easier that way," replied Cynthia quietly, "with someone who was a friend and you knew really well and were comfortable with already, not a person you'd only just met and didn't really know, or who you might think was lovely but was horrible underneath."

Trixie had opened her mouth at the same time as Cynthia, only fractionally beaten to responding. However, at this observation she retreated into herself.

"I don't think it was sudden," said Jane. "Not for her. I just think the illness changed things and made it different."

"Do you remember months and months ago," began Cynthia, "almost a year ago, how Dr. Turner lost a button from his clinical coat?" Jenny and Chummy nodded. "I mentioned it at lunch and a few days later it had been replaced. I thought then it was probably Sister Bernadette. I asked her a couple of weeks ago and she admitted it was her."

"I remember that lunch. She jumped down my throat when I made some comment about whatsisname, Timothy," added Trixie. In hindsight they all had stories like that.

They were recalling them as Chummy folded up the dress, wrapping it protectively so only one sleeve was left exposed. Chummy alone remembered another story and another woman as she threaded her needle and started to attach the first of three small buttons to the sleeve. It was tender to her; even in her openness, she had never shared it before. Her voice was low as she gently started. "The day my mother came to visit us in Poplar, Peter told me he wanted to marry me and I was afraid and told him I wanted to end it. I didn't want to but I didn't know what to do and it was easier to hide and pretend.

"Do you remember Cathy Powell?"

"She was the northerner who had triplets, didn't she?" asked Jenny.

"Yes, wonderful girl. She wasn't married to the father and had come to Poplar to see him, except he was at sea. In the end she gave birth in this ghastly little place miles away from home, without any electricity and crawling in filth, and she said she didn't regret anything because he had given her the happiest moment of her life and she had grabbed at it." She peered up from the sleeve at the intent faces. "She had such marvellous courage and made me realise what a bally coward I was and how I was making myself and Peter terribly, terribly unhappy. After the delivery was over, I went straight to the police station and turned myself in to Peter for 'criminal cowardice'."

There was a titter of affectionate laughter. "Gave you a bit of a shove, then?" said Trixie.

"Yes and I needed it. It was terribly hard, as hard as going to Africa. I don't know if I would have done it if it hadn't been for Cathy."

Life was precarious, thought Chummy. She had thought that then and frequently in Sierra Leone. A day ago she had thought it again when Hugh had telephoned with information he had uncovered much faster than she expected. Aided by a school friend who was a civil servant, he had obtained the name and work address of Patrick Turner's superior officer at Dunkirk, but the line of enquiry Chummy and Peter had hoped to pursue, the former colleague of David Watson who could be leant on by that old acquaintance, was cold; for Richard Forbes had died of peritonitis in 1948, only a few months after finishing work at the London. Blasted by fury for six years of war, he had survived only to succumb to an infection three years later in his mid-thirties. It was cruel and arbitrary. Cathy, and Dr. Turner and Shelagh, were right to seize life.

They sat and sipped their drinks, not needing to ask what occurrence had been the instigation for Patrick's or Shelagh's leap of faith. Trixie looked at Cynthia, wondering if she too was remembering the moment when Sister Julienne told them of the diagnosis, how they dissolved in shock and tears while Sister Evangelina's face noiselessly contorted and petrified. She had clenched her shuddering fist and held it against her mouth, as if to force words not to come out, then excused herself and gone straight to the chapel.

"It's slightly different though, isn't it? You knew Peter loved you, Chummy. I still don't understand how they changed things so they knew," Jenny mused. It was more to herself by the end. She had felt herself in love and breaking that hold had taken all the courage which she had. But a love which seethed without expression and could only be experienced at all after every vulnerability was rawly exposed to potential pain was an unfathomable mystery to her.

Chummy, however, answered her. She saw Jenny's confusion at the deeper truths of love, while the secrets she and Peter had become privy to in the last few weeks had only deepened her fondness for the man who had always shown such belief in her. It was wrong to call him 'just Dr. Turner' and her protectiveness rose. "I think it was Dr. Turner. He wrote to her when she was ill, which is rather marvellous courage too, really. He never went to see her and she didn't write back, but when she was discharged, she telephoned him to tell him she was going to come back to Poplar and leave the Order and he went to collect her."

"How do you know? Did she tell you?" gasped Trixie.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "Timothy did. There's something he's working on for the wedding which Peter's helping him with. I think it was terribly difficult for Dr. Turner, chaps. Timothy said that while Shelagh was in the sanatorium his father was very similar to how he was after his wife died."

The room fell completely silent as Cynthia glanced at Trixie, the only other who could make the comparison. "I didn't notice," she said. "We should have, shouldn't we? We were around him all the time and we never noticed he was unhappy."

Trixie lent her head on Cynthia's shoulder, her hands curling around one of Cynthia's arms, blinking sharply. She was still thinking of the night when the diagnosis was revealed. She had pitied Sister Evangelina then, perhaps for the first time, and even more so Sister Julienne, who looked as though a knife was twisting in her heart. But she had never considered the doctor, whose pain, they now realised, had been the agony of the damned. "We didn't bother to look. I think Shelagh tried to ask me about him once, but I just made silly comments about her coming home and everything being like 'old times'."

"How do you find the courage to do what she did and give up everything for him? I don't think I could ever do that," said Cynthia, softly, bringing her own head to rest against her friend's. They were so different, Trixie and she, their dreams of love opposites; but here their awed incomprehension was exactly the same.

Prayer, thought Chummy. The only certainty she had was that Shelagh would have prayed, endlessly, just as she had. For ease and solace, for wisdom. For endurance if the pain could not be cured, for guidance if the pain became unbearable. Because you pray and God gives you strength, she thought, and then you learn that what you gain is immeasurable against what you give up.

Jane thought of what she had once been called by a man while she was breathless from running to him and diffidently began to speak. "I think you could. I think if it was the right man you would have courage, because he'd make you feel you did. He'll make you feel different about yourself and even if nobody else thinks you're something and you're not able to be it with anyone else, you can still be like that for him." She waited for the flippant remark, perhaps an enquiry into the Reverend's health.

It did not come. "Be like what?" asked Jenny.

"Brave," said Jane quietly at almost the same moment that Chummy, equally quietly, said "Small".

As she lay in bed, before she put out the light, Jenny brooded over the conversation. She thought of Gerald, asking and demanding as he made passionate promises which were written in water, thrusting into her life, even into the sanctuary where she had fled from him. His glamour had dazzled her and she had fed her sickness, but never truly lost the shadow of self-loathing. She thought of Jimmy, young and lively, of sincere, impulsive declarations of love made both before and after his indiscretion. Then she thought of Dr. Turner, worn and shabby, patiently waiting for an answer to a letter in an impassive world which knew nothing of his suffering, standing on the fringe of Shelagh's life until she decided and allowed him to join her; and Sister Bernadette, allowed by him to make the choice and, having made it, blossoming into Shelagh, a woman richly beloved and loving. No glamour here, yet a more enduring passion, a deeper love more worth the having. And finally, she thought of another man, also tall and dark, who had pursued her but still waited until she came to him, then sat and smiled beside her in the freezing air, pointing at the stars.


	15. Chapter 15

_Dearest Patrick,_

_I don't know if anyone has ever told you, but you're a genius! At the moment I am the most popular aunt in the north of Scotland, possibly north of the border, and it's all because of you. _

_I'm writing this on Friday, so it's Jamie's birthday. Although we're having a proper celebration tonight with presents, we had a couple of little gifts over breakfast and one of the ones he asked to open was ours. I think Elspeth encouraged him to choose it as politeness to the guest as he was perfectly pleasant but didn't seem incredibly excited until he saw what it was! He absolutely beamed and said it was 'fantastic'. This may not sound like much however Jamie is not much given to exaggeration (or speech really) so it was like an hour's raving from anyone else. Although it turns out he's an even keener cyclist than I'd thought, he didn't have his own bicycle repair kit and you could not have suggested anything better. I did give credit where it was due I hasten to add and I don't think anyone was very surprised. As Jamie had already said it was the best present I'd ever given him and he is quite a smart laddie, I think he'd worked out whose idea it was. So, you are very popular with Jamie now and he is going to write to you himself to say thank you. You're also equally popular with Elspeth and Rob as apparently whenever Jamie borrowed the puncture kit in the past, things always seemed to fall apart on the farm and when he didn't, things fell apart with Jamie!_

_Jamie and Agnes have grown up and changed so much since I was last here, but I think you'll like them both very much. They both want to call you Uncle Patrick from the start, although for different reasons. Jamie thinks it's stupid to call you Dr Turner for a thank you letter and a couple of days before the wedding then change, which rather sums him up. He's very unflappable and reminds me a wee bit of my father: although he doesn't say much, a lot goes on in his head. However, there's nothing of our family in him to look at – he's all Sutherland, a miniature version of Rob, although not very miniature! He's your height already, with shoulders to match. The Sutherlands have farmed around here for as far back as anyone can remember and I think what with the blond hair and everything there's probably a bit of Viking in there somewhere! Elspeth has been looking out a load of old clothes Jamie's grown out of in case we'd like them for Timothy but I can't imagine when Timothy will ever grow into them – maybe by the time he's ready to go to university!_

_As for Agnes, she slightly idolises you already. She's quite a romantic little girl and I think she sees us as a real life version of one of her books, with you as the brave hero rescuing the lonely heroine. She was so disappointed I didn't have a photograph, and not very impressed by my description of you (tall, dark and handsome, of course!), that I told her a little about how you wrote to me in the sanatorium and came and found me when I was lost. I think she worships you even more now. I hope you don't mind me telling her; it's such a precious memory to me and in some ways felt wrong to share it with anyone, even my niece, but I wanted to talk about you so much and once I start I don't seem to be able to stop myself from sharing all of the most beautiful things. _

_So you were right about Jamie's present and you were right about me coming to visit Elspeth as well. It's been great fun and very nice to be back in Scotland too. Tomorrow night I will even be going to a ceilidh for the first time in about a dozen years. I feel a bit daft about it and doubt I'll be doing any dancing, unless I'm dragged into a Dashing White Sergeant with Jamie and Agnes, but it's St. Andrew's Night and Rob plays the fiddle in the local band so we must all be there, including the odd sister-in-law from England! Beyond that however, this visit's become tremendously special. I don't think I ever really knew my sister before, not properly. We cared about each other but had nothing in common. I don't think she ever understood my life with the Order or my choices and I couldn't understand hers. Now we're starting to and I'm watching her in awe, trying to learn how she takes care of her home and family. I hope I'm picking up a few tips for the benefit of you and Timothy. It's not just that though, Patrick. We've started talking about things we've never spoken about before, about our parents and childhood. I don't know why it's happened. Maybe it's because I've been asking her questions and getting advice like I did when I was very young and toddled after her all the time or maybe because she's looked out things that belonged to our parents and given them to me to have, so the memories come back. Yesterday we were out walking and were recalling silly things from when I was little and Elspeth couldn't have been more than Agnes' age, like going brambling in the autumn (collecting blackberries, Sassenach!) and how we'd come home stained purple and covered in scratches to have scones and tea or how our father clicked his teeth and sulked when he was stuck with the crossword in _The Scotsman. _I'd thought I was the only person who remembered. So I have yet another thing to thank you for. You've given my future, my love, but by encouraging me to visit you've given me my past back too and it's lovely. You have permission to remind me of this the next time I'm not so sure about the obeying bit of love, honour and obey!_

_It's beautiful here as well. Up until today it's been terribly dreich, to use a good Scots word! That means grey and miserable with constant mizzling rain. I thought Rob and Alistair (his brother) and the men would get trench foot and the sheep wandered around like those poor souls who hang around the docks hoping for work and never getting picked up. Today it's glorious. I'm writing this in the kitchen, keeping an eye on Jamie's cake in the oven, while Elspeth's popped into the village and from the kitchen window there's an incredible view over the hills. The air's shining and the sky's a pinky orange you never see in London. Timothy would enjoy drawing it, although Sister Julienne might have more luck capturing it! The happiest folk in the household at this are Meg and Jock, the sheepdogs, who have bounded all over the place all day. It's very interesting watching these so-called working dogs up close for a few days in bad weather and I'm becoming more and more convinced they don't actually do much work at all and might even just be pets, whatever Rob claims. Heaven forfend! Certainly, they have spent most of the past two days whining at the weather, lying in front of the fire (Meg) and occasionally licking my ankles (Jock). _

_I have been working though and how I enjoyed it! The wife of one of the men on the next farm is pregnant for the first time and I got asked to cast a professional eye over her as she was having a few pains. All very straightforward - it was colic! I think she felt a little silly, but it's not the first time that's happened, is it? It was wonderful to be back with a patient even briefly and my fingers were itchy for my pinard! I know I'm not supposed to be working, but I couldn't say no when the poor man looked so worried. The local practice covers such a vast area that there's no automatic chance of a midwife or doctor attending a birth, even in good weather. And at least I haven't assisted with any births this time. The last time I visited it coincided with lambing season, therefore my career list of deliveries includes twenty-three lambs in addition to all the babies, not forgetting eight piglets from Evie the sow! _

_So I'm well and enjoying myself. The only thing which makes it hard is you not being here. Your little letter arrived two days ago and I've read it again and again. (I hope the one I wrote on the train has arrived, as well as a couple of postcards to Timothy.) Sometimes this week I've looked at Elspeth's family life and felt almost jealous of her because she has Rob, Jamie and Agnes here, when you and Timothy are so far away. It's terrible to admit, isn't it? Most of the time when I've looked I've found myself starting to smile - Elspeth teases it's my 'Patrick look' – thinking about how soon it is until our life with each other, the three of us, will start and how we'll have our home and traditions, building on all those traditions you two already have, maybe creating some of our own too. And you'll be there. All I'll need to do in the morning is to stretch out for you or call and know I'll find you. When I hear footsteps at the door in the evening, it will be Timothy running through it or you coming home from work, pinching the bridge of your nose because you're tired. I think I would I know your footsteps anywhere. I used to know it was you when you arrived at Nonnatus House, I didn't need to turn around to know. I never thought I could think about you as much as I did in the sanatorium, however I seem to do so even more now. Please give my love to Timothy – I keep seeing things he'd find interesting which I'm storing up for when I get home. I miss him tremendously. Please tell him the photograph of him you gave me is propped up on the bedside table in my room, so when I wake up in the morning and put on my glasses he's nearly always the first thing I see. As for the rest of my love, you know, I hope, that it belongs completely to you. _

_Shelagh _

That was how it had read when it was finished and enveloped in the late afternoon. However that evening, just as they were cutting Jamie's cake, had come the knock at the door and with it the postman. A school friend of Rob's, he had returned to the post office towards the end of his round to collect any straggling birthday gifts and found, as well as one late card and present, another letter from London. She had tried to put it aside, not constantly let her hand creep towards the pocket she slipped it into while they finished celebrating, but Elspeth laughed when it arrived and even Jamie grinned as he handed her her slice of the cake. When she rose to clear the table, it was Elspeth who suggested perhaps she'd like to go upstairs 'to rest', wryly adding after Shelagh had left the room that that was the last they'd be seeing of her for the next hour.

When she returned some time later, she played her part so effectively nobody noticed her unease. She smiled at the gently caustic jokes at her expense, handing on Patrick's regards and receiving theirs for him in return; then listened to Agnes' eager explanation of the book she was reading and quietly talked with her sister while bent over her knitting needles until Rob and Jamie returned from their evening round of the farm and they all joined in with a card game, scrapping over the trumps. She was used to affecting the smooth blank look with which one covered turmoil. When she returned to her room, however, the mask melted as she once more picked up his letter.

She had yearned for it all week, the sweet, short note he had written within twenty-four hours of her leaving a prologue not a substitute. Its humour and understatement, with short sudden phrases where his brisk handwriting hinted at his love, drew his character so vividly the happiness was close to pain, while the last few words heard her gasp as she tried not to cry. Yet she shivered as she finished it again, standing by the window, staring at indistinct shadows, a strange enormity suddenly so much greater and more real.

Their talk of redecorating the room had come amidst a conversation listing repairs to be made: a wall that needed plastering downstairs, some window frames which were splintering and draughty in winter. The decision was now given to her, not just a room but their room, where daily she would prepare for the world, dress and undress, wake and lie beside him, where they would love and sanctify their marriage. This cluttered room she stood in, its narrow bed in front of her; then Nonnatus House, a room so interchangeable with others there it barely mattered; and then his bed. He called the room theirs, he always had whenever they discussed it, just as he did now. But it was his, even though he asked her to make the choice; an alien world, intriguing and terrifying.

It was not dread, not of him or even of the act. She was too wise to fear a little pain, too rightfully trusting to fear an absence of care or tenderness, still less the slightest impatience at any naïve clumsiness from her. Nor did she think it sin or shameful. She had seen the evil when love was lightly treated, its crowning pleasure made into brief, grasping transactions. Yet those vicious fires were no more obliterating than the long cold freeze of its absence, where man and woman lived side-by-side inhabiting different continents. She knew it was a gift from God, a final union symbolising other unions, deeper and more intrinsic to who they were than they could express, but also itself, unique and a joy.

What she feared was what she did not know, not only outside but also within herself. The previous Friday night had occurred an episode she could not quantify, when her actions shocked her. She was standing in front of the bathroom mirror in Patrick's house, having stopped there en route to her lodgings to pick up an extra suitcase after he collected her from the bus-stop at the docks. As she had been waiting for him, the wind had whipped around her head, teasing strands of her hair out of place, and while he was ferreting in the store room to find the case, she went to tidy it, removing the grips, combing it out, then pinning it back up again. She heard him make some quip about the store room as he appeared on the landing and was brightly responding when she saw his face reflected in the mirror as he paused silently in the door way. The bottom section of her hair was still loose and tumbled over her shoulders and she knew what had arrested him, making him gaze so intensely. There was nothing lascivious in his look. It was closer to adoring and she felt her blush grow and spread over the nape of her neck and along her spine and shoulders into her scalp and face. And although his eyes did not for one instant slip lower than her shoulders, in those seconds she felt as though she stood before him without a stitch on her body. Slowly she set down the comb and turned to face him. Without knowing why, she deliberately combed through the hair with her fingers, lingering as she reached the ends and let them slip through and curl into the hollow where her neck met her collar bone, watching him swallow heavily and his lips fold upon themselves. What she saw written so clearly in his face was not wrong or frightening, but it was desire; loving and powerful, but naked. For some seconds they stood, saying and doing nothing, watching one another; until he looked away, mumbling that he should leave her in peace and vanished downstairs. Briefly she had considered taking out the other pins to see how he would react, before reeling from it. For the first time she realised this new power she had over him in all its starkness; for the first time, consciously, she had exerted it and in confusion had discovered she wanted to.

It was one thing to know what it was which had been unleashed, another to understand it, another again to know how to embrace it, then gift it. Their discreet discussion of making love had been in general allusions and expressions of trust. She did not wish to come to him in timid surrender, but did not know how it should be. She felt it like a current each time he touched her; for long ages she had sensed him each time he was close. The one moment when more of her was revealed to him, even though deadened by shock and terror and drowning in embarrassment, she had sensed his proximity as he peeled back the skin of her habit; conscious of the heat of the fingers so precisely ensuring her breast was only touched by the stethoscope's cold kiss. The thought of a closeness with no bar of any sort between them pulsed within her, a slowly rolling drumbeat of anticipation. Yet for so long denial had bred discipline and love been equated with abjuring. Thinking back to her own letter, she winced from the description of stretching for him, knowing he would be there. It seemed immodest, too knowing, not the simple expression of her peace in him which she had intended.

Silence echoed over the frosty hills. God had been her confidante and granted her rest of sorts; His word told of how wonderfully made her body was, 'knit together in her mother's womb' and known by Him since then, designed to fulfil each purpose for which it was created. But there was no person within the world with whom she could have the conversation she was so desperate to have. Although new affection had bloomed between herself and Elspeth, too many years lay between them and she doubted Elspeth would understand. She found it hard to believe that Elspeth and Rob, young and impetuous then and surrounded by the swelling warmth of the earth in the middle of a world close to explosion, had not taken their chances as they unfolded with nature, not governed by conventions. There were no female friends she trusted enough to confide in who held the wisdom she craved. More deeply than she had for many years, she wished she had her mother, that as a woman she could sit by her side like a child again. While Sister Julienne for so long had taken that place, to have this conversation with her was no less impossible. She was entirely alone.

Abruptly Shelagh turned from the window and sat down at the dressing table, neatly ripping the envelope away from her own letter. A postscript must be added, in the same breezy style as the rest, answering the questions he had asked her. Her pen felt ungainly as she tried to pick it up, oversized; she fumbled and dropped it, watching it roll towards the edge. Clumsily she tried to reach for it, only to jar her wrist against the table's edge, disturbing the oddments arranged upon it. Their clatter covered her sharp, short cry.

She was still flexing her wrist when there was a quiet knock at the door. "Shelagh, are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine," she said, pulling her cardigan more tightly around her and opening the door. Elspeth stood outside, in slight concern. "I was noisy. I'm sorry."

"Are you sure? Do you need anything? I thought I heard you footering about and then cry out. Rob's asleep but I'm making a wee cup of tea for myself before I'm off to bed, if you'd like one."

"No, all's well. Just being a bit clumsy and dropping things!" She laughed ruefully. "Goodnight."

Elspeth smiled in sympathy. "You always were getting into fankles! Goodnight."

Returning to the dressing table she bent to pick up the pen and sat down to write.

_PS Your letter arrived this evening – I can't believe how quickly it came from London! Reading it was like having you in the room beside me. As regards the matters you raised: firstly, I'd completely forgotten about registering with a new doctor and I'm so glad you didn't. If you have time, please could you start the process for getting me registered with Dr. Reid. We should all be with the same doctor and I'm very happy to be one of his patients. Secondly, I think it might make more sense to have the room redecorated now, unless it will be too inconvenient for you next week. I don't really have an idea about colours and paper and I'm more than happy to be guided by you and Mr. Warren. The idea of yellow sounds nice though, something sunny and cheerful. Maybe a pale yellow? I'm sure whatever you choose will be perfect. _

Laying the pen aside once more, she contemplated herself in the mirror. She had stared in search of truth in mirrors before, seeking herself in their objective glare. It was different to search the image to find his Shelagh, trying to discern the tiny flame which ignited the burning in his eyes. Almost furtively, she got up and drew the curtains against the shadows, then slowly started to undress as though for bed, until she stood in her slip, bare-footed and with her hair loose around her. Through the simple cotton she saw faint shadows of her underclothes, while lamplight glowed around the edges and swells of her silhouette when she turned to the mirror to try to see what he saw, what it was he would see.

Her hair was beautiful, a myriad of colours which revealed their changes with each slight swish. Its former hiddenness was what made it shine with health, unsullied by years of tormenting. Beyond that, she was small, slight, younger looking than her age, apart from a strange agelessness in the great bright eyes. Her skin was pale, dry perhaps in places, her hands, although less chapped this year than others gone by, still roughened by work. Her face, however, was soft, despite the storms which had flung themselves upon it. The wimple had protected it. A mole, scarcely bigger than a freckle, sat just above one elbow; her mother had kissed it, claiming it as hers when Shelagh was still small enough to nestle in her lap. At the end of that arm on her palm, a small, faint scar and on the other arm fast fading puncture marks where blood samples had been extracted. Above her knee, just below the hem of the slip was another scar, an inch and a half long, where she had fallen and cut herself as a child; and below, the pale beginnings of spidery veins from the garters she had worn as a nun to hold up stockings covering the calves and neat, deft ankles, slim and taut from a decade of rushing to patients. Her history was written on her body, each part of it, yet still she could not conceive what he saw when he looked upon her.

She wondered if it would be different were she standing in the nightgown she had bought instead of the slip. Perhaps, although in truth it was less revealing than the slip, falling around her body to below her knees. The fine lace trim made its cut higher, the straps were broader. She could think of dresses she had seen which were more provocative as they clung and moulded the wearer's figure. Although shyly uncertain when she purchased it, she had felt brave, seduced by clichéd expectations which then still felt only hypothetical. But its subtle sensuality nagged at her, uneasily stirring a fevered pulse she did not fully comprehend. She could not envisage how she could stand before him in it. Yet she wanted to, letting its silken promise give truth to what she had written: that her love, in every manifestation, was his.

Shelagh picked up both of their letters again, but did not sit; instead she slowly wandered around the room, feeling the carpet tickling her feet and reading the simple words of affection and companionship. She did not know the new world, but wanted to. It was with relief that she reflected that only she was ignorant, trusting him to lead and show her, then allow her to soar. He had done so before in other ways, with the other letters, possibly even before that when he first kissed her. She read again the paragraph she had written about Agnes' vision: a romantic hero finding the lonely heroine. An aging car and a misty field, not glorious sunshine and a magical coach, but she had been found nonetheless. With slow realisation, she knew: the way in which she would find the courage to wear the nightgown was by telling him of it first, allowing herself to be teased and coaxed with humour and gentleness until her fear was gone. The only person whom she trusted enough and to whom she could speak of this was Patrick himself.

She could not write of it now, but when she sat and picked up the pen it was with a quieter sense of restored ease. What genuine union could there be if she did not remove the last bar of her reserve and hand it to him in trust? At every stage it had been him who first risked derision or rejection, forcing his reserve to flake away. She wondered, she suspected, the conversation was one he longed to have so he would completely understand her, but was waiting until she was ready.

_It's been a funny sort of evening and I'm not quite 'in sorts' even if I'm not 'out of sorts', so this next comment may sound a bit silly. I suppose I have been thinking about how Agnes sees you and some other things I'll tell you about when I'm home. Thank you for coming to find me, Patrick, not just when I got the wrong bus and was lost, but for finding me in all the other ways as well. Even when I wasn't sure who I was and who I was supposed to be anymore, you found me, and found me as me. __Thank you__. _

_All my love,_

_ Shelagh_

There was so more she wanted to write, but could not. Instead she whispered it to the letter. "Keep finding me, please."


	16. Chapter 16

**Sorry for the very long delay - real life got in the way in the last few weeks, in the form of end of semester exam marking, reports and the flu! Thanks to everyone who has kept reading and reviewing!**

"Oi! Wot're you doing?" yelled Jack.

Three cubs loitering outside the parish hall were of no interest to the men with the camera, who decided to ignore them. Neither seemed very cheerful. The taller, dark-haired one appeared faintly guilty; the smaller's cherubic blondness was belied by an expression of profound irritation.

The irritation was even less disguised when he spoke, rubbing his gloved hands together. "Hurry up, Alec. How many more are there?"

"How was I to know that film wouldn't develop properly? If we don't have this on Himmler's desk by first thing Monday, we'll both be for the high jump." The tall one checked a notebook. "Four. Tiling, cracks in the brickwork, possible subsidence and something illegible you wrote."

"There's the tiling problem," the small one pointed out to his colleague, who quickly photographed it. "Let's get this done quickly. I need to get home."

"Francine not impressed?"

His colleague did not reply directly as they walked around the corner. "Let's just say there are other things I should be doing on Saturday morning."

"I bet they're the blokes who're pulling down the 'all!" said Jack, loudly offering them a line of his grandmother's, "Tearing the 'eart outta the community, they are!"

Timothy, watching them depart, was as sceptical as he often was at Jack's proclamations. Whoever they were he sympathised; his own morning had been bad enough, even without a Francine, about whom he made his own deductions. Their rehearsal had started well enough. When not on stage he had enjoyed watching Jack, Peter and Gary, and shortly after ten Nurse Miller arrived to run through a new piece which Bagheera wanted him to play, accompanied by Akela, who wanted to start costuming the principals. This was when things started to go wrong. The piece in question was the Sailor's Hornpipe and he had been mischievously excited by the prospect of tormenting his peers with its gradual acceleration. On his father's record of the Last Night of the Proms, it sounded incredibly straightforward. In reality, it was exceptionally difficult. Even sight-reading at the speed of arthritic tortoise, he could barely make the leaps and although Nurse Miller was dispatched back to Nonnatus House to ask Nurse Lee (acknowledged by all as the superior musician) to transpose it into a simpler key, Timothy was far from convinced he would ever be able to play it at more than lumbering pace.

From Akela came news: they had the name and address of a man who had been with his father at Dunkirk. He had been wild to write the letter there and then, to post it at once, but she had cautioned him. "He might not want to recall ghastly things like the war and might not even remember your pa at all. You need to be jolly careful." Instead they planned the letter, listing what all needed to be included, and he was commissioned that night to write a version which she would check the next day.

Then had been the return to the rehearsal, now working on a scene where Gary Schofield not only knew neither lines nor moves, but seemed incapable of remembering what it was even about. He stood smirking, while Fred patiently tried to help him remember and the other boys grew increasingly mutinous. It was Jack who was told off for yelling "Are you just stupid?" after Gary came on from the wrong side for the third time, but honest Timothy knew that he had thought it too and suspected from Peter Williams' scowl that their triumvirate was entirely united in irritation. Told to go and play while Fred persevered with the breathing furniture who was his lead actor, they decided that playing outside on Jack's bike, even in the cold, was preferable to endless shushing indoors. It was not unenjoyable, reflected Timothy; however with a letter to write and the appalling piece to master, it was a terrible waste of time, more painful given the shock realisation he had had that morning: this was the last Saturday of 'Us Two'.

He was brooding on this, only half watching, when it happened. After taking initial turns on the bike, they had devised a circuit, using caps, scarves and gloves to mark out elaborate chicanes. Timothy's modest time was thrashed by Jack and finally it was Peter's turn. Nervous after Jack reminded him that the bike had been a gift from Akela, whose husband was a copper and knew what was what with boys who damaged property, Peter wobbled up to the sharpest turn, where the front wheel slipped on the edge of a patch of ice still unmelted from the previous night. The bike slid out of his control and collided with the wall, as Peter landed on the ground with a loud shriek.

The two men quickly reappeared from around the corner, abruptly stopping when confronted with tears, recriminations and a bloody, mucky knee. "Are you alright?" asked the taller one.

There was something oddly familiar about him, Timothy realised, and looked more intently. The men remained frozen, awkwardly muttering, each nudging the other to help the crying child. Why were they waiting, thought Timothy, apparently panicked by these exotic vicious creatures called boys, instead of helping Peter? Was that not what adults did? His father might be hasty, brusque, occasionally angry, but he would never just stand, expecting somebody else to act. Timothy had wondered initially if the man was a colleague of his father's. Now that seemed impossible.

It was the friend who eventually took the tentative step forward, offering an almost clean handkerchief to the still snivelling Peter. "Fell off your bike?"

Jack, examining the frame of the bicycle for scratches, exclaimed scornfully, "It's my bike! Don't be a big girl's blouse, Pete!"

At this, Peter looked even more miserable, cowering into the handkerchief and whining it might be worse than it looked, while the blond man knelt beside him and uprighted him.

Timothy hunched down and peered at a sizeable scrape on Peter's leg. "It's only a graze," he said dismissively, until Peter's bubbling eyes recalled to him a similar reaction at the same diagnosis and he added more kindly, "but it needs a bandage and to be cleaned." He heard a snort behind him. The other man's twitching smile made the face even more recognisable.

"'is dad's a doctor!" said Jack hotly. "'e knows about this stuff."

"Sorry, we're just architects," said the kneeling man soberly to Timothy, adding to his friend, "Do you think we should get one of the girls round from Nonnatus House to have a look?"

"Akela's inside. She's a Nonnatus nurse," offered Jack.

"Is that Chummy?" When Jack shrugged his shoulders, he expanded. "Nurse Noakes?" The boys nodded. "Go and get her."

As Jack vanished, Timothy turned to the tall man. At the name Nonnatus House, he had remembered. "I know you," said Timothy. "You're Nurse Lee's friend. She was sitting on the back of your scooter." He had his back to the blond man and did not see his attentiveness, only the dark haired man's mild embarrassment. "She was hugging you."

"How do you know Je – Miss Lee?"

"She works with my dad. He's a – "

"Doctor," the man interrupted. "Of course. Your friend said."

"I know her too, though," Timothy added, quickly. "She'll be here soon, actually. She's rewriting some music for me at the moment."

Whether the shared acquaintance made formality impossible, or the man simply felt foolish that he alone was still standing, he decided to join them, crouching next to Peter. Now starting to calm, the boy stopped mewling and began to stare at the camera dangling from the man's neck. "I like your camera," he said.

"Thank you." The man gestured to it. "I could take a picture of the two of you if you'd like?"

There was a novelty to this. Forgetting one's grazed leg and the other's general gloominess, the boys were posing when the hall door opened.

"Peter Williams! What have you done to yourself? Careering into walls and destroying the fabric of the district?" Although she spoke briskly, nobody was deceived or surprised by the gentleness with which Chummy received the child from the blond man.

"Hello, Chummy."

"What ho, Jimmy!" She nodded to the other man. "Hello, Alec."

"Letting your charges charge around a bit too much, perhaps?" He laughed at her baleful groan.

"It's 'is fault," said Jack, aggrieved. "Me and Timothy could ride it alright!"

"Jack Smith, be quiet. You're in danger of being demoted from an alderman to a cockney wide boy. Bagheera needs you inside now, so in you go, pronto! Timothy, you've still got a few minutes." Jack sauntered inside, nursing the remnants of his dignity, as Chummy shepherded a limping Peter away.

Timothy alone was left. He pondered whether he should return to the warmth of the hall and somehow start drafting his letter. Had it been to Uncle David or Uncle Kenneth he would have done; if it had been a letter to Shelagh, a letter promised but as yet unwritten, he would have been gleeful, adding details about Fred and which sections of the pantomime she would most like. But his brain was too fretful for this strange request to a faceless unknown. Better to leave it until the long stretch of evening, punctuated by kind enquiries from Mrs. Harrison, and sitting opposite the blank emptiness of his father's armchair. Instead he listlessly collected the various items of clothing which had marked out their racing track, damp and cold and slightly soiled.

The men had not left either, although they no longer contemplated the building. They were talking a few yards away, quietly, yet not so quietly that they couldn't be overheard. "There's something odd about the damp course on the side wall I want to check again. You go, though, Jimmy."

The blond man's look was ironic. "Damp course? Alright. Say hello to her from me."

The way the dark man did not entirely meet his friend's eye was not quite the same as the expression Timothy had seen on his father's face some weeks earlier when Timothy asked why he was taking so long to shave when they were supposed to be collecting Shelagh. It was similar enough, however; and when the man turned after seeing his colleague off, apparently now unbothered about any damp wall, he found a small boy curiously watching him.

"Are you waiting because you want to see Nurse Lee?" Timothy asked bluntly.

As the man admitted it was, he dreaded where the interrogation might be about to go. When he had imagined himself questioned about his intentions towards Jenny, it had been by a nun, by turns stern and sympathetic, not a boy, young, inquisitive and unexpectedly astute.

Part of Timothy wanted to ask the question the man expected most, but a muddle of voices in his head warned him not to be rude: an old mixture of his mother's cadences and his father's words, now with something new chuckling underneath. Instead, he changed the enquiry. "How do you know her?"

"My friend Jimmy, who was just here, introduced us. They've known each other since they were children, almost as young as you!" Suddenly the boy seemed self-conscious and twisted his cap in his hand, but he still peeked at him, shyly smiling. "What did you say she's doing for you?"

"Re-writing music," Timothy explained. "I've got to play it on my violin in our pantomime, but it's too hard. Nurse Miller's playing the piano for the pantomime, but Nurse Lee's much better at music, so she's going to get her to rewrite it."

"Is that why you're here? Are you rehearsing?"

"Yeah," he sighed, disconsolately. "I wish we didn't have to."

"Not enjoying it?"

Timothy scrunched up his nose. Although he was cold and frustrated, it was not true that he didn't enjoy the pantomime. "Usually I do," he started. "It's _Dick Whittington _and I've got a really good part as well as playing my violin because I'm the cat. The cat and the fiddle. It's a joke, do you see?" The man laughed. "But I've got loads of things to do at the moment and I've hardly been needed this morning and it's really boring and I wish I – ." He stopped, embarrassed at what he had been about to say.

"It's not much fun working on Saturday mornings," sympathised the man.

"My dad does it all the time and Saturday night too," Timothy commented. "He's always working, except he's not this morning, which makes it more annoying. My dad's Dr. Turner." Holding out a solemn hand to be shaken, he introduced himself. "I'm Timothy Turner."

"Alec. Alec Jesmond," said the man, taking the hand gravely. "Pleased to meet you. What makes what more annoying?" he asked.

The hand was quickly withdrawn and thrust into a pocket, as Timothy looked away from this man he barely knew. "Nothing," he mumbled. "We just do stuff together on Saturdays sometimes."

Alec did not press against the newly erected reserve, instead returning to his camera to check the number of pictures left and shooting the underside of some rusted guttering. It was while he was rolling the film on that Timothy spoke again, curiosity again greater than momentary shyness. "What are you taking pictures of?"

"Damaged bits of the building. Not very exciting. It's for work. I've taken some before, but there wasn't enough detail of the problems."

"Like what?" For ten minutes Alec answered Timothy's every eager query, pointing out bomb damage and crumbling features until finally handing over the precious camera and helping the child take the final shot himself. "I wish I had a camera," said Timothy.

"Do your parents not have one? Maybe you could borrow it?"

"My mum's dead," he said, without looking at Alec. He was used the flash of mortification and pity on grown-ups' faces; he did not want to see it again. "My dad does, but he'd want to know what I want it for and it would get a bit tricky."

"Why?" asked Alec. "Do you want it for something particular?"

Timothy scuffed the toe of one shoe. "A picture of my dad. All the photographs of him are really rubbish or really old," he explained. "He's getting married again soon, just before Christmas, and I know there'll be lots of pictures taken then, but I'd like to get one of just him now."

Alec paused, uncertain. He wished Jenny would appear. "I see. Is that as a reminder of things at the moment before they change?" he suggested.

Timothy frowned, slightly troubled by the words. They were close, so close, to the heaviness he had felt that morning when his calendar told him this was the last Saturday of confidential "man-to-man chats" accompanying the board game league and plates of fried bread, and that even these would be truncated by duty, his in the morning, his father's later. He had tried to quell his dismay: it made no sense. He was counting the hours until Shelagh's train would draw into King's Cross and his Saturdays with her were treasured memories, no less joyful than those with his father, while he hugged himself every time he anticipated the meticulous plan for next Saturday finally coming to fruition. Yet he did feel gnawed by the dull ache of something. It was not sorrow any more than he felt sorrow at losing his baby teeth or his first bicycle; but there was a murky worry festering within him.

That anxious confusion, however, was far from linked with wanting a photograph of his father; the sweet reason was entirely the reverse. Eventually he replied, uncertainly. "No, as a Christmas present for Shelagh. That's Dad's fiancée," he explained, with careful elocution. "She's in Scotland at the moment and just before she went, she and Dad realised they didn't have photographs of each other and she was really upset about it. If I'd a camera, I could take a picture of Dad for her."

There was a boyish chuckle of relief. "I see. You get on well, then?"

"Yes, of course. She's brilliant," said Timothy, puzzled. "I've known her for ages and ages. Dad thinks she liked me before she started liking him." Leaning against some railings, he contemplated Alec. "Did you think I wouldn't like her?"

"No, no. It's great you like her," replied Alec, reluctant to explain. He had been standing opposite Timothy; now he joined him. "I suppose I wondered how you felt about getting a new mother, especially if you've got things you do specially with your father. People don't always like change," he added, looking up at the building, the red letters of the notice glowering on the door.

Timothy said nothing, his head on one side. They were still standing thus, alongside one another, when they heard a sharp tap of shoes and a flurry of skirts and Jenny Lee arrived. She looked tired, her face clean of make-up, as though dragged from sleep, until her eyes brightened as she saw Timothy was not alone.

"Alec."

"Hello, Jenny." He stepped towards her, until he was only a few paces away.

Timothy thought he was now an expert in observing couples and here was the same intent gazing. But they were coy, almost nervous, Alec's smile too bright, while Jenny looked away, down and back as they exchanged pleasantries. How different from his father and Shelagh, he thought. His father grew nervous before seeing her, smoking and fiddling with things, ceaselessly tapping on the steering wheel of his car if he was driving, sometimes silent or irritable, while she withdrew into herself; but once together something was released and they were entirely themselves, perhaps even more themselves when together than they seemed capable of when apart. And when Jenny's eyes flickered to Timothy in embarrassment, he felt uncomfortable in a way he had never previously done: with his father and Shelagh either he was part of the moment of meeting or, on a tiny number of occasions, they were so absorbed by the other that for a instance he did not exist in their world. Those moments were rare and startling, but never awkward as this was. As quietly as he could, he tried to slip back to the hall.

Jenny, however, stopped him. "Hello Timothy. Here's your music. I've put it into G major, which should be much easier for you."

"Thank you, Nurse Lee." She smiled prettily. "I'll go and practise it now," he continued unsubtly. "Thank you for letting me take a picture on your camera, Alec. It was really good."

"It's a pleasure," said Alec. "You can have a copy, if you'd like?" Timothy nodded with such enthusiasm that he made a second offer. "As you don't have your own camera, would you like me to take a photograph of your father for you? Or maybe your father's fiancée would prefer a picture of you and your father together? I'd be more than happy to." Although he could see Jenny' reaction from the corner of his eye, it was not the only reason for the suggestion.

"Really?" Timothy beamed. "That'd be amazing. I don't know what she'd like more though."

"I can always take both and you choose. You could keep the other one for yourself."

"Are you going to have a photograph taken as a present for Shelagh?" asked Jenny. "That's lovely! It should be of both of you. She'll treasure it."

"We're having dinner with Sister Julienne on Wednesday. Can we do it then?"

Alec nodded, well rewarded by Jenny's enthusiasm. "I hope the rehearsal ends soon and you get to do some of your 'stuff' with your dad!"

Timothy grinned. "Thank you!" Then he stopped, serious again, wondering if Alec, so much closer in age to him than to his father, could help him once more. "Alec, if you'd had one afternoon with your dad when you were my age and it was just the two of you and sort of special, what would you have done?"

A muscle in Alec's cheek jerked. "I don't really know, Timothy. I never really did special things with my father when I was your age. It was the war and he was away with the RAF. By the time he came back, I'd got used to things with just Mum and was a bit old for special afternoons, so it is rather difficult. I'm sorry. I'm sure you'll come up with something, though."

There was a wistfulness in Alec's tone. It explained the sudden leap he had made to remembering things before they changed and it echoed in Timothy. He thought about it as he began laboriously practising the hornpipe. He still thought about it that evening while feverishly writing his letter, painstakingly copying the smudgy draft onto cream coloured writing paper purloined from his father's study.

It had rained in the afternoon and they had stayed at home, content to play chess and listen to records while Dad laughed at the accounts of Gary Schofield's ineptitude. While records were scattered on the sideboard for him to play that evening and the chessboard was still on the table, its desultory veterans of battle crowded around it, his father was at the hospital now. Only Mrs. Harrison occasionally pulled him out of his silence.

Dad had once explained to him the difference between being clever and having a good memory: people could either remember things or they couldn't; being intelligent like Uncle Kenneth was about putting different bits of information together and making deductions. That was what diagnosing was. Now he tried to diagnose himself: why did he long for Shelagh's return and dream of life after the wedding, yet suddenly cling more and more closely to familiar routines of affection and loneliness, both loved and hated? Towards the end of the rehearsal he had planned a perfect afternoon with his father in his mind, but then when his father collected him ten minutes late, he had been petulant and tetchy. 'Before they change'. He remembered Alec's words. As he looked over to where old photographs of his father and mother and himself were displayed, he slightly shook.

"Timothy, love, are you alright?" Mrs. Harrison's voice and manner did not change. They never changed, like warm and comfortable slippers that were moulded to your feet.

"Yes, thank you," said Timothy. "Tickety-boo, as Dad says."

"It's quite chilly, isn't it? Let's have another bar on the fire. I don't know what my friends in Yorkshire would say to see me now – complaining about cold and burning away money! Becoming far too much of a southerner, these days!" She kept watching him as she crossed the room until she heard a quiet snigger. "Have you finished your letter?" He had not divulged the finer details, but it had been too hard to hide completely what he was doing when she caught him creeping into the study to find the writing paper.

"Almost. Last paragraph."

"Is that you almost all done now with your Best Man preparations?"

"Yes. There's only one thing where I'm really stuck. Do you know where men can get nice clothes?"

Mrs. Harrison blinked as she looked up from the fireplace. "Not really, dear. I could ask my Andrew if you'd like?"

Timothy sighed quietly. He had met Mrs. Harrison's son, an open-hearted, pleasant man, in clothing as drab as his father's. Very few people he knew ever dressed like people in newspapers or the magazines his mother used to read; only Auntie Louisa and, when she wasn't in uniform, Nurse Lee. Then his mind began to reverberate, again piecing together information. A woman who was pretty and stylish. A sympathetic man who was her friend. Slowly Timothy started to grin; now he knew how to find out where to buy clothes.


	17. Chapter 17

The evening had been wretched. He was surprised by the call from the upstairs landing, tentative, but warm.

"Timothy, could you give me a hand for a moment?"

They had sniped at each other with brittle irritabilities throughout dinner. Patrick had been on time collecting Timothy after the clinic, but he had been weary and distracted, asking questions yet neither hearing the answers nor responding to questions Timothy asked. It was only after they returned home that he remembered they should have stopped at the chip shop. He was too tired to go out again. Instead they had watery scrambled eggs; the dourness between them solidified with each scrape as food was pushed from one side of a plate to the other and every nagging reminder to practise for the violin exam and to write to Shelagh. Timothy clattered the dishes into the sink, washed them in hostile silence then retired to the sitting room, sawing his way up and down scales and stabbing at his pieces. Initially Patrick joined him with his writing pad and fountain pen, trying to wrestle words to Shelagh and finding they would not come when punctuated by endless repetitions of difficult phrases, clumsily bowed. Moving to the dining room, again he failed to get beyond the first paragraphs. When Timothy finished his practice, finding some writing paper ostentatiously left next to his violin case, his father was upstairs, whistling the Sailor's Hornpipe at a brutal pace which Timothy bitterly knew he would never be able to replicate.

Although the door of the spare room was open and its light on, Patrick was in his bedroom when Timothy wandered to the first floor. The wardrobe door hung open with a suit hanging from it. On the floor below were a small number of crumpled garments on the floor and a box of miscellaneous bits and pieces, mainly crumpled pieces of paper and empty cigarette packets. The bed was stripped and pushed into the middle of the room, two paintings which had been removed from the walls and a small mirror lying on top of it, while a bedside table and an armchair crouched nearby. Patrick was at the side of the room, edging his chest of drawers forward, inch by slow inch.

"What are you doing?" asked Timothy.

Patrick straightened up and puffed, pushing his fringe back from his face. "Trying to sort the room out for Mr. Warren, so he and his sons can get straight on with decorating it instead of wasting time on this."

"Aren't they coming on Thursday?"

"They are, but I might not have time after we get back from dinner with Sister Julienne tomorrow. I don't want anything to get broken or lost by rushing and this way I can clear out the rubbish and the things which aren't needed anymore as well," he said, gesturing towards the box of detritus. "Well done," he offered, gently. "Your pieces sounded much better by the end, Timothy, especially the minuet."

Timothy flicked a wan look at his father. While Patrick was speaking, he had scanned the room, feeling a cold choke bubble in his throat as he saw what was missing and deduced where it had gone. "What do you want a hand with?"

It hurt him that Timothy had not responded to the little compliment. Although he smiled as he explained, it was forced. "I need to move this into the middle of the room. Could you push against it while I pull it?"

"Alright," said Timothy, taking his place.

"Thank you. Don't hurt yourself. Just a little bit of a push."

The chest of drawers was old and sturdy, an heirloom from Patrick's parents. At first they strained and tensed, feeling the legs catch on the rims around flattened edges of carpet with resolute immobility. Timothy pursed his lips as he gripped the edges, responding to Patrick's breathy advice to 'be careful' only by pushing more. Then, suddenly, it gradually started to slide across the floor.

"It's moving, Dad!"

"Keep going. Almost there," Patrick grunted. "And, stop! There we go!" Now Timothy grinned a little at him, leaning over the top of chest of drawers.

"Why was it hard at first when it was OK at the end?"

"Because we had momentum. That means that when you've got started, it's quite easy to keep going, but it's hard to start in the first place. As the chest of drawers had been in that spot for a long time that made it particularly hard to get going. It's like what happens when you're riding your bike, especially if you're riding downhill and you get faster and faster. Do you see what I mean?"

Timothy nodded. "Is that why things can't stop sometimes?"

"Yes. The momentum takes over."

With a final nudge, Patrick pushed the chest of drawers against the bed. Apart from the wardrobe, fitted against the wall, all of the furniture sat huddled in the middle of the floor. The room seemed colder to Timothy as he looked at the uneven patches of colour on the wall and carpet, alien and so much bigger. "When the painting's done are you going to put it back the way it was before? I mean, the way it was before, before," he added, uncomfortably.

Patrick folded his lips for a moment before replying. "I'm not sure. Shelagh ought to decide really. And it will depend on whether we can get the thingummygig for her on Saturday and what size it is. Rooms often look different when they're painted too." From out of his back pocket he pulled a folded piece of wallpaper with three small samples of paint upon it and offered it to Timothy. "Could you help me with something else? I need some advice. I need to pick a paint colour. Shelagh said in her letter this morning she'd like the room a pale yellow so Mr. Warren gave me these three choices. Which one do you like?"

Timothy shrugged, inaudibly mumbling.

"Please, Timothy," Patrick inveigled with false cheerfulness. "What do you think? They all look the same to me - I don't have the eye for colours you have. That definitely came from Mum."

Ignoring the shard of the last sentence, Timothy reluctantly took the paper; it minutely shook in his hand and the shades swirled. Placing it on the top of chest, he folded his arms in front of it, leaning his chin where the wrists crossed, his eyes down. Within his mouth, he bite the inside of his lip.

"Timothy?" There was no response; the head was curled down, however Patrick could see the eyebrows contract. "Timothy, what is it?"

Even after Timothy looked up, he did not immediately reply. Once and for a long time this room had shattered him. But still he had been drawn to it, waiting until his father was away on calls so he could secretly invade it. Then suddenly it had altered months later. Things were removed, others changed. Although it was never explained, he knew he had never been alone in his sickness. He took a peculiar comfort from this and his healing slowly began; a scab started to form. Now he saw it changing again. All things were changing. Things disappeared which would never come back and he no longer knew if only he cared or saw they had gone. With this the scab was shredded, leaving a wound freshly seeping. He swallowed and paused, frightened of what the answer might be if he asked the question. "Dad, are you still sad that Mummy died?"

Patrick stared in total incomprehension. "What?" The sound was hardly formed enough to be a word.

"Are you still sad about it? That Mummy died?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Properly sad?"

"Of course. How could you think that I wouldn't be?"

Timothy persevered. "Even though if she hadn't died, you wouldn't be able to marry Shelagh?"

Which of them was paler, from fear or shock, was unclear. Patrick's voice was not recognisable when he spoke. "Do you _really_ think that? Have you been thinking about this for a while?"

"No," said Timothy, very softly. His voice was uneven and his face rippled. "But – " He shrugged again and looked into the polished surface where his arms were folded.

The old armchair which Patrick nightly threw his clothes upon and sat in to pull on his socks and shoes each morning had been facing the bed. He turned it around towards them. "Sit down." Timothy seemed tiny crouched in the chair, trapped between the worn headrests. His hands were under his knees, the knuckles folded over the fraying upholstery, a cornered animal.

With nowhere else to sit, Patrick sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him. That day had plundered all of his experience in a series of hideous consultations. He had painstakingly explained to the Higgins parents the hopelessness of Gracie's test results until the mother wailed in agony; there was Mrs. Tate, rapidly disintegrating, clinging to hope of the impossible miracle while the bleeding cough tore through her; finally a blithe expectant mother at the clinic where no flutters of life could now be found, destroyed by his news. Each had crushed his empathy and compassion until only the last flickers were left. Now he mined these dwindling reserves, as father, not doctor, laying out the truth before him in all its intricate complexity.

"Timothy, Mum's illness and her death will always be among the very saddest moments in my life. That will never change. I'm very happy about marrying Shelagh, however it's not because I don't still feel sad about Mum. It's definitely not because I've forgotten. I won't. I couldn't. You won't ever forget Mum, will you?"

"No," said a little voice.

"Good. I would hate it if you did." Hesitantly he reached out and placed a hand on the boy's knee, waiting in case it was shaken off before he continued. "I loved Mum very much, just like you. I thought you knew that."

"But what about Shelagh? What if Mum hadn't got ill?" What was the confusion in Timothy's voice, wondered Patrick. The idea that she was not loved enough or too much? The hugeness of the parallel life, its 'what might have been' so overwhelming? It was too easy and simplistic to say he would never have noticed her or that she would have just remained Sister Bernadette. He did not believe that now; regardless of whether they had only ever remained colleagues, she would not have seen his need had she not already been searching beyond the window.

"But she did, Timothy," he said simply. The child's face crumpled grotesquely. Patrick moved closer, hovering near his son. "I don't think it helps saying 'what if' this or that. When things happen, there's no point in wishing it wasn't like that, because it is like that. Sometimes I see horrible things at work, where good people develop terrible illnesses and can't be saved. Sometimes they're children, younger than you. Although it's awful, it just happens. It was the same with Mum. She didn't deserve it and neither do any of those people, but it did happen. What's the point of 'what if'?

"The really important thing is how we react and what we learn from what happens. It's not Mum _or_ Shelagh, Timothy. If Mum hadn't died then we'd be different, wouldn't we? We've changed because of Mum, haven't we?" Timothy slowly nodded. "How have you changed?"

"I've learnt stuff," he faltered. "I've learnt all kinds of things since Mum died about being independent."

"Yes. You're incredibly independent, and when you have to do difficult things, you're able to deal with them. That's called being resilient. You're thoughtful about other people. You can even be patient – sometimes," he added, with the merest hint of teasing, watching for the slight quiver of amusement. "That's because of the last few years. And Mum would be so remarkably proud of you." The voice broke slightly.

"And I'm different too, I think: more grateful for things, a little more patient, I hope. I think I've had to learn to accept what I can't do. I'm not sure what, but I know that I'm different." A hand slid out from under the knee and the tips of two fingers wove into the fingers of Patrick's hand. "So if Mum hadn't been ill, I wouldn't have married Shelagh, no. But if it wasn't for Mum, and her illness, we wouldn't be who we are now and I don't think she'd have wanted to marry me anyway. The fact I want to marry Shelagh and she wants to marry me is because of all the things that make us the way we are, including all the happy times with Mum and then the time when she was ill and her dying. It includes Shelagh being a nun for so long and then being ill too. Do you understand?"

He started to nod. "Mum's sort of part of you getting married again."

"Yes. What happened to Mum is part of you and me and that means it's part of Shelagh too now."

Glossy light reflected in Timothy's eyes. Although he mumbled, his looked directly at his father. "If Mum's part of you getting married, why have you not got her picture anymore?"

Patrick closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, they were warm and his lips had settled into something close to calm. "Go and look in the spare room, Timothy. Go on."

Normally Timothy questioned any command he did not understand; now, seeing the urgency of his father's encouragement, he simply obeyed, hauling himself from the chair, slowly crossing the room and the landing to enter the spare room. The normal sterile neatness was brimming with life, in piles of belongings evacuated from Patrick's bedroom. His most frequently worn clothes lay on the bed, while a table was covered by the clutter that had previously lived on his bed-side table and the top of his chest of drawers. Hairbrush and comb, alarm clock, books, handkerchief, ashtray, matches and cigarettes, diary, and, laid flat at the side, a silver framed photograph.

Timothy picked it up. He had been only five when it was taken, yet he vaguely remembered the autumn sunshine during that holiday and how his mother's careful pose collapsed while his father fumbled with the dials. She called it 'his toy' and laughed the very second he took the picture. Instinctively he started to smile back at her.

"See?" Patrick was standing in the doorway of the room. "Not got rid of."

"You won't get rid of it, will you?" asked Timothy, perching on the edge of the bed, quickly looking up.

"No, of course not," said Patrick. "Shelagh and I talked about it and we thought we'd put that picture up in the sitting room. That way you'll see it more as well. I've meant to move it for a couple of weeks. It just kept slipping my mind."

"And you're not sorry about anything? Even though you're still sad that Mum died?"

Sitting down beside him, for a moment Patrick put his arm around Timothy's shoulder. "How could I be sorry when I was married to your mum and we had you?" He heard a little sigh of ease and rubbed the shoulder. "The only thing I ever feel sorry about is that I didn't marry Mum much earlier and we waited so long."

"Why didn't you?"

"The war," he replied.

Timothy frowned. "Why couldn't you? I don't understand. People get married during wars. Uncle David and Auntie Louisa did. So did Auntie Anna and Uncle Tom."

"I know," said Patrick, withdrawing the arm and running his hand around the back of his head. "We could have done. We talked about it. It was me who didn't want to." He wondered how to convey the horror without corrupting the dreaming imagination which made heroes of pilots and soldiers. "When Mum and I were growing up, there were two men who lived on our street who'd been in the first war and they never really left it behind. One of them had been very active and very good at sport – he'd hoped to be a professional footballer. However he was badly injured and although he came back, he was in a wheelchair and had only one arm. He was angry all the time because of the things he couldn't do and because of that his wife was very unhappy.

"The other man had a terrible time in one particular battle and later on in his life when he heard sudden loud noises, they sometimes reminded him of that battle. It didn't happen all the time, but it could be really ordinary things like his children shouting or a car backfiring and he'd become upset. Can you imagine what that would be like?"

Timothy nodded. "I think so. Really horrible."

"Yes," said Patrick. He could still see his father moan and gibber as he watched from the doorway. "Anyway, I didn't want to get married until the war was over in case I was injured as I didn't want Mum to go through what those men's wives did and have to spend the rest of her life taking care of me."

"She wouldn't have minded."

"I know. But I would."

From the corner of his eye he could see Timothy slightly turn and face him before the next question was asked, very quietly. "Did you mind taking care of her when she was sick?"

Patrick blinked and looked up at the ceiling until he could control his voice. "No, never." He paused and exhaled, then began again. "It was a privilege. I know that now: it's special to be allowed to take care of a person in that way. See? That's another one of the other things I've learnt because of Mum's illness which changed me."

"Is that why you want to get married quickly this time? Because you wish you'd not waited with Mum?"

"Yes."

They sat in stillness, one still holding the photograph, the other staring at his shoes. "I like the middle one," said Timothy eventually. Patrick turned to him, blankly. "The colours," he explained.

"The middle one?"

"Yes. It's nice and bright, but it's not really really bright. I think Shelagh'll like it."

"The middle one it is, then. Thank you." Rolling his shoulders, Patrick stood up, briefly touching Timothy's head before patting him on the shoulder.

"Can I help with something else?" asked Timothy eagerly, following Patrick out of the door and back to his bedroom.

"Not really. It's almost done."

"There's got to be something," he said stubbornly. "I could help you put them away," he offered, pointing at the small pile of clothes and box on the floor.

Patrick laughed. "No need. They're getting thrown out."

Timothy leant over and peered judiciously, before picking up one particularly elderly shirt from which blood and vomit stains could no longer be removed. "They're not very nice are they? They're quite tatty."

"Why have you suddenly got some fixation with my clothes? That's the third time you've complained about them in the past few days." said Patrick suspiciously. "Have you been talking to Auntie Louisa or something?"

"I've not talked to Auntie Louisa," said Timothy, carefully crafting his words into the truth. "You should get a nice suit for the wedding though."

Patrick raised an eyebrow. "I should, should I?" Timothy grinned. "I suppose you're going to recommend where I should get it from now."

"Maybe," said Timothy, putting his hands in his pocket. Patrick snorted, shaking his head, and piled the clothes into the box. "Isn't there anything I can help with? Can I sit and talk to you?"

"I'll be finished in five minutes."

"Can we please do something then? It's our very last Tuesday. And we've not got any Saturdays left now." He looked awkwardly at his father and handed over the old shirt. "I mean Tuesdays and Saturdays that will be just 'Us Two' times."

Although Patrick took the clothes, he looked at Timothy, not them. "Until Shelagh's on duty or visiting her friends or family or she wants to read a book or pray or just do something by herself or it's a time when we decide we just need a bit of 'man-to-man' time," he said lightly, beginning to laugh. "You don't really think we'll never have any 'Us Two' time again, do you?"

For a moment Timothy squirmed. His fears seemed incredibly silly now. "No, not really."

"No, not really," repeated Patrick. "You can't play chess with three people and I don't think Shelagh desperately wants to learn how to fish, do you?" he said. "In a few weeks you'll still be having lots of 'Us Two' time, except it will be with both of us in turn and I suspect you'll have so much fun with Shelagh, you'll be complaining that time with me is incredibly boring." Sheepishness spread over Timothy's face.

"Now, if you really want to be useful, can you get that suit hanging on the wardrobe door and stick it in the spare room? Then why don't you go and have your bath now, while I finish up here, and maybe you could give me little concert of your exam pieces or read me an interesting bit of your book or something before bedtime? Alright?" Watching Timothy bashfully curling his chin into chest was like watching him as a little boy: he wished he was not too old now to be cuddled, as he winked at him on the way out of the door.

The snap of the wardrobe door shutting echoed across the room, as Patrick looked back over it. At first he had loved it; large and roomy and light, his belongings on one side, Elizabeth's on the other. Then it had become infused with the long, slow scent of death, light draining from it as the air grew heavy. At last it tormented him - empty spaces, the cold void of the other side of the bed - until a day, months after her death, when he could no longer bear its constant reminders. He offered Elizabeth's furniture to Anna and David and Louisa, as useful keepsakes for their children of a woman they had loved, before moving everything that remained until each piece stood in strange and different places: the bed against a different wall, the chair by the window, not the wardrobe. Trying to reinvent the room, he only succeeded in reinforcing what had once been. The belongings left were debris of a life lost, swamped by space and absence.

It had mocked him then. Now the room was in limbo; incomplete, uncertain, yet awaiting recreation. Bright colour would clean and cover the fadedness, imbuing the walls with hope.

Switching off the light, he went to the spare room to collect the photograph and, just as Timothy had done, he looked down at it, remembering how she had laughed when he had taken it and shaken the newly short and curled hair. Two weeks earlier, for their eighth wedding anniversary, they had gone to see _Roman Holiday _and as they were walking home, she had announced her intention to have her hair cut like Audrey Hepburn's. 'Take me to Rome, Patrick' she whispered as she took his arm and they imagined speeding through ancient streets on a Vespa, seeing places they had read about and eating ice-cream in brilliant sunshine some day when they could afford it, perhaps their twenty-eighth anniversary, wondering if they could ever be so old. The Hepburn style had suited her; this holiday photograph the first record of it. He smiled as he recalled how she fidgeted with it in the first few weeks, whether it was neatly styled around her face or lying tousled against their pillows. Once or twice that holiday he had playfully called her 'Princess Anya' as he ran his fingers through it, until she said it felt as though he was making love to her sister and he promptly stopped, returning to the old, old nickname which only he used: Lizzie. It was not a diminutive, but a memory they winced at of when she had emulated her favourite heroine, denouncing him as rude and arrogant and ungentlemanly, a terrible snob who thought he was above everyone else in their street because he was now studying in London. With shock he had realised that the little girl, someone he had alternately shown off to or ignored for years, had grown up, seeing her anew and mending his manners until she forgave him a year later; then, later still, agreed to accompany him to his college dance.

For so long Elizabeth had laughed at him from the top of his chest of drawers, yet he had not fully looked at it for many, many months. Slowly, he knew the image had become an idealised shrine, the flaws and quirks which had truly made their life together forgotten and actual memories jangled into discordance. It was beloved, but no true reflection of who she had been, a focus in the room which burdened him with terrible heaviness until his lungs were rusted iron dragging him down like an anchor. Then, gradually, this year, he had felt the rust begin to slough away, each flake removed with buffeting, gradually lightening the weight until he could start to move. The lines and focus of the image behind of the photograph had sharpened once more and now he saw her again, as she was. And she was there, not only in the picture but in his mind and his memory, in Timothy. A derisive note in his laughter, his fierce concentration when drawing, something about the way he held his head when he asked a personal question, the surprising eruptions of his giggle. She was there. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, Patrick gazed down at the image, no longer the instigation of grief or pain, but of tender gratitude for the happiness he had known. A film of dust had accumulated on the glass and he took his handkerchief to wipe away it away until it was clear; and, just as he done when first confronted with the fleeting expression he was attempting to capture with the camera, he laughed back.


	18. Chapter 18

**As ever, thank you so much to everyone who is still reading - and reviewing! **

The cathedral at Durham was austere against a lilac sky when she was jerked from dozing by the abrupt pull out of the station. A fixed point, while the train wound through a landscape greyed by the smoke from rows of cramped houses, it remained the centre, imperious and untouched in a cold majesty.

She had watched from the window as the train drew out of Edinburgh, seeing the Pentlands diminish into bumps on the horizon dwarfed by the emerging hills of the Borders. She faintly recalled sluggishly racing into Berwick; by then the drowsy rocking already lulling her towards sleep. She had resisted it, fought against it, and none would know from her poise, but behind her glasses her eyes had closed. Now her neck was stiff from the angle at which it had been held and Shelagh rubbed it as she discreetly stretched, rolling her shoulders and extending one arm by her side, before adjusting her glasses, squinting as she accustomed herself to the light.

By Shelagh's thigh, where it had slipped from hands and lap, was the book she had intended to read. She had no recollection of the pages she had begun, words identified rather than processed. All she had thought of was time and distance, the number of miles left to crawl. Picking it up again, for a moment she riffled through the pages, then quietly smiled as she felt the obstruction bulging at the back. She would not read the book again, but she would read. Opening it at the back cover, she carefully withdrew the bundle of letters which had arrived the previous morning.

They had been laughing over the photograph taken for Patrick while breakfasting, a rather serious shot, where she seemed intent on penetrating the camera with her stare, the severity alleviated by the mildest hint of her gentleness but none of her humour. Teasingly, she had offered a spare print to Elspeth, who snorted, saying she hoped for better things in a fortnight's time. "You should've dressed like that," said Elspeth. "That would've knocked his socks off."

Shelagh chuckled. She was wearing an old pair of corduroy slacks and arran jumper which belonged to Elspeth, both comfortable in their oversized warmth, while her feet were clad in only thick wool socks; behind the kitchen door were a muddy pair of boots. For the first week she had stayed in her room in the still hours of early morning, reading or praying, trying to rest yet discomforted as she heard every groan of the floorboards as Rob, then Jamie, then Elspeth and Agnes stirred. For the last few days she had joined them in portioning out feed and water to the animals, waking the farm as darkness dissipated into light, then returning to breakfast rejuvenated, her blood and breath as clean and fresh as water. "Oh, I don't know. You should see some of the things we come across in Poplar. It would take quite a deal to knock off Patrick's socks."

"Like twelve to a room full of rats and beetles and all yon soot and smog?" replied Elspeth. While she had no fear of dirt, vermin or even death itself, some of Shelagh's stories made her shudder. "I can't imagine what's making you want to go rushing back!"

Jamie smirked and Shelagh smiled, both understanding the waspishness. Agnes did not. She sidled up to Shelagh. "Can you no stay longer? It's been so nice. If you do, we can go on the train together and you can point out English places to us on the way. I've never been to England."

How did you tell the truth to a pair of sweetly sincere blue eyes so like those of the woman the child had been named for: that you were counting the hours until the train would stagger to a stop, hoping a miracle would bring you there ten, five minutes earlier? It was Jamie, in a rare breakfast contribution, who replied. "She's missing himself, Stupid."

"Jamie, don't call your sister stupid," said Elspeth sharply. Jamie gave a non-committal grunt; the expression suggested any apology was comparatively limited. "Now, away wi' both of you. You need to stop dithering or you'll miss the bus," she continued, while collecting plates from the table.

While Jamie gathered coats and school bags, Agnes crept even closer to Shelagh. "Are you missing Uncle Patrick lots?" she asked quietly. Shelagh nodded. Initially Agnes said nothing, but her eyes shone even more brightly as she placed a kiss on her aunt's cheek and embraced her.

Jamie was brisker, unceremoniously throwing Agnes' bag at her after she had whispered goodbyes full of excited expectancy, bundling her out of the way. Briefly he threw an overlong arm, the length of which he was still not fully accustomed to, around her shoulder, giving her an awkward peck and a hearty farewell. "Aunt Shelagh, it's been great. Thanks for the repair kit. See you in two weeks." Checking his mother was engaged with Agnes, he spoke again, quietly and elliptically. "I asked Uncle Patrick about something when I wrote. Can you tell him I still want to, if he's alright wi' it?" He shuffled uncomfortably as he spoke.

"Of course," said Shelagh, without probing, but curious, warmed by the sudden, unexpected intrigue between Patrick and her nephew.

Jamie grinned broadly. "Hope your trains and things go fine. Agnes, come on!"

"I'm coming! Stop yelling at me!" she scowled. Still mildly bickering, they charged through the door, with one last wave to their aunt. Shelagh chuckled as she waved back, as much at Elspeth's resigned groan as at the children, still entertained by it as she collected a cloth from the sink and started cleaning down the table. She was close to finishing the task, checking for spots which might have evaded her, when there was a sharp rap at the door. It was Jamie.

"What did you forgot?" asked Elspeth.

Jamie shook his head, breathless. "Met the postie at the gate." He held out something to his mother, his eyes quickly moving from his mother to his aunt, then back. Although Shelagh could not see Elspeth's reaction, the sense of a shared joke between mother and son was tangible.

"Clearly no paper shortage in London!" she said. In the hand held out towards Shelagh were three envelopes.

The handwriting on one had been unknown to her, although she guessed correctly from its easy flourishes whose it might be. The other two had been beloved to her. Momentarily, she listened to the train's stuttering clatter and contemplated them again, thinking of the beauty and sadness of the words which called her home. The cathedral had long vanished, replaced by the starker brutality of the North Yorkshire moors, and she opened the letters again.

Just as she did after they finished the breakfast dishes and Elspeth began checking cupboards and pantry prior to her daily shop, leaving Shelagh with tea and reveries in a corner of the kitchen, she began with the slimmest of the envelopes: the letter from the unexpected correspondent.

_Dear Shelagh,_

_A dozen thank yous to you for persuading Patrick to go along with Timothy's stag party scheme. I don't know what you said, however Patrick has accepted the invitation to our non-existent dinner party. David is so extraordinarily over-excited that it is currently like living with three little boys, the oldest of whom is in danger of popping. I can only guess how excited Timothy is._

_Less frivolously, we appreciate the sacrifice on your part tremendously. I'm sure you would infinitely prefer to spend the evening with Patrick yourself and suspect the last thing I would want after a long train journey (Journeys? Patrick said you have some appalling marathon journey with buses to Elgin and Aberdeen and then trains from there and an overnight stop in Edinburgh? Sounds vile.) is meet two middle-aged medical bores and spend the evening with some rampant children and their exasperating, and exasperated, mother. It is most kind. For what it is worth, I very much look forward to seeing you again, while Kenneth is delighted he will meet you, as are David and our three. Quite genuinely, __you are under no obligation to be sociable__. Feel free to absent yourself and have a sleep, a bath, peace and quiet, ransack the bookcase, monopolise the radio etc. I like my children, but I'm not one of those awful mothers who expects everyone else to. Awful in many other ways I'm sure, but not that one! _

_As a small offering of gratitude, I have an invitation to make: my old medical school holds evening lectures which I attend when I can, in the forlorn hope of stopping my brain turning into porridge. On the 16__th__, Dr. Mary Nicholls will be delivering an address on monitoring foetal wellbeing. She gave a fascinating lecture two years ago on toxaemia, which I greatly regret missing. Would you like to join me in attending this one? We could perhaps get supper in town first. I realise that this is only days before the wedding and you will be very busy, but if you would like some 'heavy relief' by that stage, I would be delighted to provide it. _

_I hope you are enjoying your visit to Scotland and very much look forward to seeing you at the weekend. Please give my regards to Edinburgh. One of my uncles was a lecturer at the university many years ago and I have a soft spot for 'Auld Reekie'!_

_Warmest regards,_

_Louisa Watson_

She wrote the way she talked, thought Shelagh, the words rattling like machinery over the page, scattering opinions and insights with her peculiar combination of perceptiveness and want of tact, all bound up with a patrician manner not unlike, although so much more confident than, Chummy Noakes. She had noticed when they lunched. While the lecture was enticing, the company was hardly less so, Shelagh realised. So many women had written to her in the previous five months; even in the past two weeks, short letters had arrived from Jane and Trixie. Yet all were underpinned by a subtle web of former relationships, professional authority or the strictures of the community she had renounced, uncertain how to negotiate the changes which had occurred. This alone simply held out a hand of friendship from the new life, a hand she was so eager to take, wondering if one day this handwriting too would be recognisable and dear to her?

The second letter had been promised before she left. The first was written on paper as smooth as velvet, elegant in its lack of ostentation, while this was coarser. But its graininess took her to a place of peace. Despite the lumpy softness of the railway carriage, she felt herself within the staid safety of the parlour of Nonnatus House, sitting on a thin cushion on top of a wooden chair which squeaked when one leant forward and groaned in the winter months when one stood up. It was illusion, she knew, but for a moment in the kitchen in Aberlour and again now in the train, Shelagh thought she smelt it: the old wool of their habits, the furniture polish Peggy used, hyacinths, the drifting scent of something baking. Knowing now what the letter contained, the memory became more vivid with the clarity of grief.

_My dear Shelagh,_

_My apologies for not writing before now, the last week having been more taxing than anticipated for various reasons. I have an hour now before lunch and think that the pleasure of writing to you can certainly be classed as recreation. While I am sure that you are missing those who are most dear to you, I hope you are having a marvellous time with your sister and her family and that this brief return to Scotland has been a joy for you. Please assure your sister that we look forward to welcoming her and her family when they come to London for your wedding. I suspect the prospect of staying here may be somewhat daunting for your nephew, in particular if your brother-in-law cannot attend, however I hope that he is not too intimidated. Thanks to Constable Noakes, we are a more eclectic community these days and we are all very keen to meet Jamie after reading your description of him driving the farm tractor in last week's letter!_

_The reasons for the taxing week have been two-fold. The first has been an especially busy week. In addition to our routine nursing duties and an unusually high number of deliveries in the past ten days, there were three significantly premature cases. All are thriving and Nurse Franklin's delivery of the most complicated was exemplary and a great tribute to her professionalism, although perhaps it is invidious to single out individuals as it has been a challenging week for everybody. It will not surprise you, I am sure, to know that the most busy of our colleagues has been your fiancé, whose expertise I was very glad, as always, to be able to lean upon during a difficult delivery on Sunday. The patient in question was your former patient Edie Little, now the mother of a healthy baby boy – such a happy ending after the heartache of the past. She asked to be remembered to you and have her thanks handed on for your care and reassurance in the early stages of the pregnancy._

_The second factor has been several lengthy meetings. One was with the department and among the matters discussed, we finalised the details of your return to work. They have assured me that you will work solely from Nonnatus House until you are able or wish to resume full-time work. My suggestion would be that you return the week beginning 23__rd__ January, which would be three months after your discharge from St. Anne's, working two days a week (and no nights) in the first instance. Whether it would be preferable for these to be set days or to rotate, you will, of course, want to discuss with Dr. Turner and your housekeeper. We are entirely happy to accommodate either and are simply thankful for God's goodness in returning you to us. I hope that we will be able to retain Nurse Simpson for some weeks after your return, which should ease this period further. _

_Sadly, one of the other meetings of the week has had a more confusing and uncertain resolution, about which I suspect you will be distressed. The rector of All Saints and I were among a delegation who met with the council planning committee yesterday to request that the demolition proposals be reconsidered. It seems increasingly unlikely that this will be the case and although Mother Jesu Emmanuel intends to make one final petition when she is in London for your wedding, the most prudent course of action is for us to assume that there will be no reversal of the decision and seek other premises. We do not know yet the proposed schedule for demolition. I have no doubt in God's providence and I am confident that the council will assist with the rehousing process, in particular of Nurse Noakes and her husband, as both are in priority occupations. However I must confess that I feel both anxiety and a terrible sadness at this prospect. I find it hard at present to think of any other suitable premises and fear it would be impossible to care for the community as we would wish to unless we are housed at the heart of it and thus fully a part of it, while the quality of nursing and collegiality may suffer without having accommodation available for staff. _

_It is an immense relief to me to know that you at least will be safely established in your married home by the time of the demolition, but it will also be a great blessing to have you with us in the next two weeks as one of my greatest worries is how the news will be received, in particular by Sister Monica Joan. I intend to tell both the sisters and nursing staff by the end of the week, so there may be considerable discussion of the matter when you return. I know I do not need to ask you to pray for us, Shelagh, and that you carry us in your heart as we do you. Knowing that your prayers are with us is as great a comfort now as you have always been to me. I have found much solace in my private devotions this week as I am studying the book of Isaiah and have returned to Chapters 40 and 41 repeatedly. However I also find myself remembering something you said during one of my visits to you at St. Anne's: how it had been your time in the wilderness. I think that perhaps we are all facing one now, albeit of a different sort, and pray that we will face it with the same courage and integrity that you did yours._

_I have one more, more joyful meeting tomorrow, which has been something of a beacon in the past few days: I have Timothy coming for afternoon tea after school, with his father joining us for dinner later (calls dependent). I am anticipating a most enjoyable discussion of art, the wedding and the pantomime, which, if Fred's furrowed brow is an accurate barometer, may not yet be quite ready for public consumption! Judging by the delectable smell currently coming from the kitchen, Mrs. B's plum cake will be – as long as we can avoid it being 'liberated' in the next twenty eight hours or so!_

_With deep affection,_

_Yours in Christ our Lord,_

_Julienne OSRN_

Shelagh had prayed then, silently and fervently, quietly mouthing in the corner of the kitchen prayers that spoke of comfort and guidance. She had not cried; this sense of loss was beyond tears. That night and this morning she had turned to Exodus, the book of an exiled people trusting the Lord to lead them to a place they could not envisage. She did so again now, meditating on the words of reassurance she had read and noiselessly offering into His hands the tiny community of women, each individual who had forged her womanhood with their gifts, praying that the defiant light they spilled into corners of despair should not gutter into nothing, smothered by darkness.

Even after she had ceased praying, she did not pick up the final envelope at first, instead staring out of the window again. There was no frosty tessellation on the hills now; the sky was paler, colour stripped from it. Eventually it would flatten into the fens and an endless acreage of incomprehensible sky. Now it was untamed and wild.

The final envelope she had left as her crowning pleasure when she first received them, regretting the decision immediately when she turned it over and saw the amendment to the familiar direction on the back. The sender was declared as 'Dr. and Master Turner'. While she was slower now to open Timothy's letter again, her eyes were twinkling.

_Dear Shelagh,_

_I'm really sorry I've haven't written. I know it's rude when you've written to me and Dad told me off. I meant to, but I've had lots of stuff for the pantomime, my violin exam and school. Thank you very much for the postcards. They are great and I liked the one of Elgin the most. I have pinned them up in my bedroom next to the cards from the TB hospital (_written over the rubbing out of a different word)_ and Chichester._

_My violin exam is next Monday. I think it will be OK as the pieces are quite good now, even the tricky bit in the third piece. Sometimes my minor scales sound a bit funny. I'm glad it's over soon as I got a new piece for the pantomime on Saturday and it's impossible. Nurse Lee changed the key so it's easier, but it's still difficult and I'll never play it fast enough. Dad keeps whistling it really fast which is really annoying. Please can you get him to stop because he'll listen to you. _

_The pantomime is alright. Some of it is quite funny and when everyone is singing it sounds good. We had a rehearsal on Saturday except Gary didn't know his lines so he had to do extra rehearsing and Jack, Peter and I played on Jack's bike, until Peter fell off and hurt himself. _

_School is alright too. I got 9/10 for the composition you helped me with. I've got a history test next week on the Romans. Please can you help me revise when you get back as Dad's really grumpy at the moment and too busy. Last weekend he worked on Saturday night and Sunday too. I went to Simon's house in the afternoon. _

Under the next paragraph was another rubbed out section, where Timothy's final salutation and signature might originally have been.

_We've just sorted Dad's bedroom before it gets painted. We had to shove the chest of drawers really hard! Dad let me pick the paint colour as he isn't very good at that. I hope you like it. Mr Warren is coming on Thursday. Tomorrow we are having tea with Sister Julienne and I am having cake with her after school first which will be fun. _

_I think Dad is just grumpy because he misses you and he's looking forward to you coming back. I am too. See you at King's Cross on Saturday!_

_Timothy_

Some of the phrases made her eyes pop with amusement on first reading the letter, wondering what on earth had happened in her absence. It was too easy to imagine the squabbling between father and son. When she re-read the letter now, it was with poignancy. She could guess, from what the final letter did and did not say, the muddle below the scarcely veiled resentment and perhaps why it did not permeate the last two paragraphs.

That final letter she cherished, absorbing each word and hearing them in his voice.

_Dearest Shelagh,_

_I suspect by now you've given up on getting love letters. I'm sorry. I don't think I'm made that way. However, even if I were, you would not get one tonight. Your step-son to be is currently practising his violin and it sounds as though he's crucifying it. In addition to his exam pieces, Fred's given him a new piece for the pantomime and it is less the cat and the fid__dle than a cat viciously strangling a fiddle. He is practising the wretched thing endlessly and I've now got it stuck in my head. Suffice it to say, I am contemplating ransacking the surgery's aspirin supplies. My dear, if we are blessed enough to have a child and he or she has the good luck to inherit their mother's musicality, can we please push them towards a more easeful instrument? The trumpet perhaps? Currently drums seem preferable._

_It has been a fairly ghastly couple of days. Yesterday I had my monthly row with the department over their failure to provide adequate supplies; this time the purveyor of the excuses was Hurst, against whom I should have taken an instant dislike three years ago on the grounds it would have saved time in the long run. Today I had to break tragic news to three different families, including the family of Gracie Higgins, whose case you doubtless remember. It is hard to feel anything other than completely ineffectual in those circumstances and wonder what earthly purpose one serves. The one high spot was your letter, which arrived yesterday. I am so glad that your time in Scotland, with Elspeth in particular, has been so enjoyable. I have contacted Michael Reid and Len Warren and both your GP registration and redecorating our bedroom are now in hand. Mr. Warren and his sons will begin the redecoration on Thursday, while you have one form to sign to finalise the registration when you return. Your records have been handed on._

_I started writing this at seven o'clock, then stopped in the face of the caterwauling next door! I'm picking it up again at nine thirty, now Timothy's in bed. I'm sorry to have been so sour in the opening paragraphs. It hasn't been quite as bad. The supplies did arrive this morning and there have been a couple of wonderful moments at work: I was privileged to witness Sister Julienne perform an almost miraculous delivery of a premature child on Sunday, while the indomitable Arthur Pearce, eighty-nine and still going, has responded in the most remarkable way to penicillin and seen off the pneumonia which I thought would finally take him. I have a special affection for Mr. Pearce as he was my first patient when I arrived in Poplar and is the only person who still calls me 'lad'. However it's been very, very busy. I'm exhausted and worn out – I've averaged about three hours sleep a night in the last week – and Timothy and I rowed earlier, which is always wearying. I miss you most of all, Shelagh, at these moments. You always seem to be able to soothe away the irritabilities between us and sweeten my ill-temper. If I am honest, even before we were to each other what we now are, you had an uncanny ability to make this fractious colleague see things in better perspective and find some of that peace you always radiated. I don't think Timothy could go back to how it was when it was just the two of us now that we've had a taste of how much happier life can be. I know that I could not. It would seem far, far blanker even than the terrible blankness it was then. _

_Timothy had 'a moment' this evening when he was helping me sort out our bedroom prior to the redecorating. He panicked about where Elizabeth's photograph (which I have finally remembered to put in the sitting room) had gone and ended up asking me the 'what if' questions we thought he might raise. He was also quite clingy about spending time together, about which I feel horribly guilty. Last weekend was monopolised by work and the time we had was curtailed by an extra pantomime rehearsal in the morning. Ironically, my Saturday evening stint at the maternity hospital proved to be entirely uneventful, my presence fairly redundant and I spent most of it completing paperwork. I hope I have reassured him and certainly we had a bit of nonsense before he went to bed, with him pontificating about _The Lost World _for fifteen minutes and then us having a quick game of knockout whist, during which he seemed much cheerier. He is also looking forward to having afternoon tea and dinner with Sister Julienne tomorrow. However I suspect he is feeling fairly vulnerable and is certainly tired. I will be extremely relieved when the violin exam and the pantomime are out of the way. _

_Interestingly, a propos of my Saturday night shift, I have identified the origin of Sister Monica Joan's John Donne 'reference', if I dare call it such again! There is a patient in the maternity hospital at the moment (slightly older prima gravida, early stage complications) who was formerly an English teacher. She happened to have a book of Donne's poetry with her, and when I gave a vague approximation of the line, immediately identified the source as 'Love's Growth', found it and kindly allowed me to have a look, before cross-examining me on my views afterwards. Thankfully she approved of my opinion! It is a rather touching poem, part of which I am tempted to use in my speech at the reception, which I suppose I should start thinking about._

_Your last letter made me laugh, but worried me a little. Agnes and Jamie sound delightful. I had a thank you letter from him yesterday and see what you mean about him not wasting words! He asked if he could shadow me on my rounds the day before the wedding and could you please tell him I'd be very happy to have his company. He sounded fairly covert, so I'm not entirely sure whether he is considering medicine as a career or just wants to avoid conversations about dresses! I hope you did dance at your ceilidh – I had a little chuckle as I imagined it. I don't think I'll be reeling (Is that the right term?) you around the floor soon, although I could once do a fairly decent waltz and a long time ago I learnt the foxtrot from Louisa because I wanted to surprise Elizabeth. These days it would probably be more of a foxlumber. Incidentally, Louisa has asked me for your sister's address, so you may be going to be Louisa-ed, for which I apologise. Above all, though, I hope that whatever it was which was making you out of sorts has passed. If and when you want to tell me 'the other things', I will be eager to listen and to do anything I can to lessen whatever disconcerted you, my dear. I don't think I deserve what you wrote at the end, although it was beautiful to read. I was far more lost than you when you found me. _

_As this is the one night I won't be dragged out on a call and the rest of week is likely to be busy, I think I ought to end this and get some sleep. However on Saturday, after early surgery in the morning, the day is gloriously clear and while you are chuntering south, Timothy and I have one or two important expeditions planned! I hope your journey goes well and that you enjoy your overnight stop with your cousin in Edinburgh. However, if they do not or you feel tired or unwell when you arrive, __please tell me__ and we will make our excuses to David and Louisa. They will understand. Finally, come hell, high water, hurricanes, hydrogen bombs, hypothermia or anything else beginning with 'h', I promise that I will be on time to collect you from the station!_

_Entirely yours and with all my love,_

_Patrick_

The letters and the book had been replaced in her handbag at the point where the buildings began to stretch and grow, blocking a sky now heavy with grit. The listless gaze became an urgent stare, despite a long, slow period still to be covered before the train and she would come to their rest, as Shelagh sought what she knew. Not the same docks or the same quiet heroes and petty villains, but versions of them appearing again and again in streets which could be the ones she had cycled and tramped through. They too were crumbling and dirty, noisy and invigorated, tumbling with life. She was clutching at her bag, her gloves creased, anticipation quickened.

At last she felt the arresting of the wheels and the last fragment of sky vanished behind brick walls and glass windows. A high shriek and the view from the window was filled, first with the platform, then blurs of colour who slowed into bodies and faces, a throng waiting. They were a mass to her, matchstick people, yet all individuals entirely real, pulsing with blood and private longing as she was, anxious and ecstatic in the separate hopes she had no time to speculate about.

Then suddenly it was Timothy, wearing the burgundy jacket he had worn at the christening, hopping from one leg to another and starting to run towards the edge of the platform; sharply recalled by Patrick, frowning, anxious, watching each carriage go past. She tried not to cry out and waved. They did not see her. For as she raised her hand behind the window, something Timothy said made Patrick look at him. His face unburdened, the creases changed into laughter, and Shelagh's hand was against her lips. Now they were beyond her, looking at the carriages after hers, walking away from her while the train took her further away still. Fumbling, she tried to collect her cases, stumbling as the train jolted and stopped, found herself hastily thanking a man who helped her, then alighted onto the freezing platform, colder even than the carriage, and into a swarm of people. She could not see them through the maze and could only start to walk towards where she knew they might be found.

"Shelagh!"

First she only heard the raucous uninhibited shout. Despite the clamour of lugged cases and heavy winter shoes battering through a swirl of identical conversations, she thought she heard him running, quick and light in the uneven rhythm of small steps then long ones taken to avoid the crowd. Then she saw him. Timothy tore towards her, his grin widening with each step until he skidded to a stop directly in front of her. For a moment he paused, thinking, caught between childhood immediacy and the shyness of youth, then resolutely flung his arms around her.

"You're back!"

She felt rather than saw the taller figure appear behind him as she buried her face in the top of the boy's head, kissing him through his hair, knowing what she would see when she looked up.

"Hello, Shelagh." He smiled with nervous confidence. She tried to reply and found the words stuck. A chorus of hectoring from a wife scolding her seething husband rang indistinctly and a young man in a tailored suit pushed quickly past them, his head full of money, eager to join the crush further down the platform. But as Timothy stepped back, still beaming, Patrick walked in the opposite direction. "Welcome home," he whispered, laying a hand on her arm and kissing her cheek. It was brief and discreet and clumsy passing elbows jostled him, but still it was infused with the same gentle timelessness as the first time he had kissed her, on a bleeding hand in a tiny kitchen in a condemned hall.

"Hello Patrick." She fumbled with the buttons on his coat, stroking them, then looked up. Although he was still smiling, he had removed his hand and the fingers begun their customary fidgeting riff.

"Was the train cold? You feel slightly cold."

Her exhalation was the beginning of laughter. "I'm well." Stretching up, she softly touched his cheek and jaw. "All's well, Patrick."

"We need to get you a proper winter coat." She squeezed his shoulder and felt him start to ease.

"Can I take your cases?" asked Timothy. "Why have you got two? Didn't you only have one when you left?"

Shelagh nodded. "The other one is a loan from my sister. She gave me lots of things to have, mainly things which used to belong to our parents. There were so many I couldn't fit them into my case."

"Oh," said Timothy, putting his head on one side. "Is that because you weren't allowed to have any stuff of your own when you were a nun so she had them all and now you can have things because you're not? Dad told me all about that once," he explained.

"Yes," she replied. Seeing him make for the older, heavier case, she hastily picked up the lighter one and held it out to him. "Why don't you take just the one, Timothy? There are a few things in it for you anyway. They belonged to my nephew, Jamie, and Elspeth thought you might like them."

"Oh! Can I see them when we get back to the house or are they presents?"

"Some of them."

"We've been getting presents today!" he said, with a conspiratorial look at his father. "We got something really good for you!"

"Timothy!" warned Patrick. At Shelagh's questioning glance, he added shyly, "Groom's present for the bride. Let me take that."

She reached the other case first as they both stretched for it. There was room on the handle for Patrick to have taken it cleanly, yet she felt his hand closing over hers, almost completely covering it. He did not pull at the case or shuffle his hand away, but rested it on hers. His second and third fingers trailed until they almost reached her wrist and ran down the full length of her fingers as she withdrew her hand, blushing at her sudden wish that she had not worn her gloves.

She took his offered arm as they wove through the station, refreshing themselves with small sips of glances while Timothy erupted with news and questions beside them. Maybe it was absence, thought Patrick, but he did not think he had ever seen her look so well. Apart from a slight trace of colour on her cheeks, she was pale, but she had always been pale, even in the stuffiest of squalid delivery rooms, and this was the pale sparkle of a clear skin glowing with health, with no purple shadows under her eyes.

The corner where Patrick had parked was secluded, hidden away at the edge of an almost deserted area. Even the noise of the station seemed muffled as he pulled out his car keys to unlock the boot. Then he frowned and started patting the pockets of his coat, before reaching into his jacket, the frown more pronounced.

"What have you lost?" asked Shelagh.

"Timothy," said Patrick, "could you run back to the tea room and see if I left my lighter there?"

"You didn't!" replied Timothy, helpfully "You put it in your coat pocket when we got up to go to the platform! I saw you do it!"

"Really?" He fumbled in the pockets again. "Could you go and retrace our steps then and see if it fell out between the tea shop and the platform? There might be some extra pocket money in it for you," he added, as Timothy started to protest.

This was something of a gift horse and Timothy, although decidedly unimpressed by his father's absent-mindedness, did not believe in looking such things in the mouth. With a resigned rolling of his eyes, he jogged back towards the platform, his eyes scanning the ground.

"Is there anywhere else you could have put it? Have you tried the inside pocket of your jacket?" suggested Shelagh, helpfully. Patrick, however, was no longer looking for the lighter; nor did he seem particularly disconcerted. The frown dissolved from his face while he put her cases into the boot and carefully looked around them at a few people dotted nearby, all absorbed by their own separations and reunions, unconscious of and uninterested in the man in the worn brown coat and the neatly dressed young woman beside him.

When Timothy turned the corner and was out of view, he turned back to her, his expression impish and slightly guilty. "It's in my pocket," he whispered, taking her face in his hands.

Her eyes broadened and her cheeks dimpled. "Dr. Turner! I'm shocked."

"I never said I didn't have it," he muttered, beginning to grin while his hands slid from her face to her shoulders then down her back, until they rested in a hollow at her waist, gently pulling her towards him as he lent down towards her and her eyes started to close.

Two hundred miles to the north, on the other side of the country, a grey haired man sat in his study. He too was re-reading a letter. Arriving in his business in-tray in the middle of the week, it was only now that he was fully contemplating its request, yet although his eyes scanned it and he mechanically turned the pages, he was scarcely reading. Both the short covering note, from a Camilla Noakes, and the main letter, intelligent and courteous in carefully controlled pencil, began by acknowledging that he might have no recollection of the person about whom they were asking. That was not the case. Opening the letter was to nudge the lid off hell once more until he was standing on the beach again, tired and filthy, with the sand staining red in front of him. The gun still smoked at the end of a shaking arm only inches above the beach and above it, the drawn, grey face, a trail of blood splattered across it, snarled its bitter question: "This is what we became doctors for?" Yes, he remembered Patrick Turner.


	19. Chapter 19

**A brief digression for the stag party, but back with Patrick and Shelagh in the next chapter I promise. As always, thank you for the lovely reviews and the encouragement to keep going.**

A_ blank, my lord. She never told her love,_

_But let concealment, like a worm i'th'bud,_

_Feed on her damask cheek: she pined in thought;_

_And, with a green and yellow melancholy,_

_She sat like Patience on a monument,_

_Smiling at grief._

The words had been poignantly delivered, although, thought Patrick, it was hard to imagine how an actress with the slightest iota of sensitivity could fail to move an audience with that speech. From behind them had come a muffled sob and when he snuck a sidelong glance to his left, wondering what Timothy was making of this most wordy and serious of scenes, it was with quiet satisfaction that he saw the boy leaning forward, eyes agog and mouth slightly open, rapt in concentration. Yet it was not only the beauty of the lines which made him think about them once again as he stood in the queue at the bar, quietly waiting to buy their interval drinks.

After the initial shock of finding himself so monumentally and universally hoodwinked by son, friends and fiancée, his slight regret that he was leaving Shelagh mollified by her sunny teasing and obvious pleasure in Timothy's delight, the evening had been glorious. The excellent dinner and bright-eyed sophistication of the city were a brief vacation from toil, more of a shot in his tired arm than any blast of adrenalin. With the company came the old restorative of old friendships, as easeful as slipping into a warm bath, as natural and simple as breathing, where maps of jokes and thoughts emerge with the clarity of roads on a clear day. Then came the play, one which he had seen before, several times, but never struck by it quite as he was now. His gut burned and even standing up when the house lights announced the interval was painful; it was a relief, he considered, that he could self-diagnose the fact he had probably strained a stomach muscle from laughing so much rather than face the disapproval of one of his more censorious colleagues, whose reactions to such shameless frivolity he could only speculate about. Beyond the farce, it was not the play's charm and vigour he considered, or even its balance between bawdy nonsense and the deeply moving explorations of love and loss. Every moment of it was tinged by the conclusion Timothy had come to on the train to the Old Vic, one which still wandered in the back of Patrick's mind. Question after question had burst out of him, clearly every query which had been stored up and simmered for the three weeks until secrecy was over and the encyclopaedia of Dad could be consulted. Was it sad or funny? What was the story? Why was it called _Twelfth Night _and wasn't that a silly title? If it had songs, was it like a pantomime? Was there really a country called Illyria and if not, why didn't Shakespeare set it in a proper country? Why would a girl dress up as a boy anyway? Patrick had answered each one, skirting over the issue of what a young woman protecting her honour really meant as delicately as he could, much to the entertainment of David and Kenneth, both of whom were more than content to sit opposite in wry amusement. The last question had been the most interesting: who was the hero? He had enjoyed watching Timothy's shock at the answer, gently admonishing the little sexist by asking why a woman couldn't be heroic? Timothy had squirmed and avoided the question by asking why Viola was brave, listening carefully, his nose screwed up, while his father explained about her quiet courage, the resilience and resourcefulness which kept her going through difficult times, how she had sympathy for people who suffered and tried to do the best for the people she cared about; then, finally, he had made his observation: "She sounds a bit like Shelagh."

It was years since he had seen the play, infinitely longer since he had studied it at school, but he remembered the plot too well to need to concentrate on the interweaving storylines. Instead, he watched and laughed and found the truth in what Timothy had said. It was fondness, not arc lights, which softened and glorified this version of the heroine for him, but the energy, the intelligence and wit, the innate compassion, the practicality, all were peculiarly familiar. Even a capacity for plotting and keeping secrets, hitherto unexpected yet clearly surprisingly well developed from the evidence of the past few hours, was not inappropriate. At one moment towards the end of Act 1, the actress had set her shoulders and pursed her lips, then strode forward towards the house of her rival to face what pain lay ahead and it had been so like the moment when Shelagh had taken her case with the briefest twitch of a smile and the words 'We shall see', then walked away, without pause or backward glance, into the sanatorium that he had shivered. He had called it pluck when he was at school, told off for his unacademic discourse but commended for the idea. Now, with that ghostly memory in mind, he saw it as something deeper, that reserved, resolute bravery.

How long had she sat like Patience on a monument, offering one face of cheer to the world while a cancer of grief devoured her? He knew she had, could only guess at depth of the unhappiness which for so long he had not noticed, a presence like the instruments on his car's dashboard or the lines upon his face: a constancy he barely noticed, as wilfully blind as Orsino although maybe not so foolish. What hints of suffering had peeped through the cracks in her façade he had dismissed, first as tiredness – his or hers, it hardly mattered, they were so similar – and then as fancies imagined by his own impossible longing. They had talked of her long searching of her soul, but little of those dark nights of turmoil, she still reluctant to speak of them and he to probe the rawness which still caused pain, and when they had, she spoke in strange oblique terms he did not understand: the will of God, a crisis of faith, searching for the Holy Spirit, her time in the wilderness. It had been harder for her, he knew that. There had been self-loathing when he saw how he had disturbed her peace and desperate loneliness when he waited for letters of reply which never came and thought he had invented an affection which he now knew he had grossly underestimated, but even these had been easier than her struggle, for he had had no vows to renounce; death had broken them already. That realisation had been his crisis, and, with it, the acceptance that it was no infidelity to love again.

'_Cakes and Ale'_, happiness in this life, not perpetual grief, was that not what the play said? That and that time would put all things right until all things were understood and the survivors emerged from the wreck, breaking the surface to be blessed by the sun. Better to live and love and laugh, than stagnate and gather dust; even, perhaps especially, to laugh at oneself and see one's own idiocies. It was with a snort to himself that Patrick tried to recall the oddly apposite lines near the end of the play, just scrabbling at the edge of his memory: the heroine, newly renamed but still clad as a boy, stood in front of a man fervently declaring her love; and he, confused but finally starting to understood, asked to see her dressed in her '_woman's weeds', _promising_ 'when in other habits you are seen Orsino's mistress and his fancy's queen'._ Timothy had picked surprisingly, eerily well, although, mused Patrick, there was one unnerving implication to the comparison he was drawing. To find all he loved in Shelagh so vibrantly displayed in Viola, admired and adored by the world, was a private joy, but, he thought sardonically as he reached the head of the queue and made his order for two whiskies, a glass of claret and a lemonade, he desperately hoped that he wasn't quite so intensely irritating, perpetually whiney and such an unconscionable drip as Orsino.

Standing at one side of the foyer was the rest of their party, David hands in pockets leaning lightly against the wall, Kenneth intently padding down the tobacco in his pipe, apparently unconcerned about actually lighting it, and Timothy staring at the crowd, mesmerised by the cut-glass pecking of chatter.

"Are you enjoying the play, Timothy? You've been laughing almost as much as your father," asked Kenneth.

Timothy nodded vigorously. "I thought it would be boring, but it's much funnier than I thought. I like the silly knights, especially Sir Andrew. He's really stupid, isn't he? I like the songs too."

Kenneth smiled. "Spoken like your father's boy!"

"Does Malvolio wear yellow stockings and smile and be awful and everything in the second half?"

"Wait and see! Now, are you happy with the way everything worked out this evening? Is there anything else which you would like us to do?"

"I don't think so," said Timothy. "I can't think of anything. But I've not been to a stag party before, so I don't know. Is it a good one?"

"Excellent. Couldn't have done it better myself," said David vigorously.

"You didn't do it better yourself. This is much better than the one he organised last time round," continued Kenneth, adjusting his glasses with a smirk, while David chuckled.

"What did you do last time?" The idea that there had been a stag party once before belonged to that strange impossible life where Dad had a nickname and laughed more frequently than he looked anxious or was part of events which were detailed in history books, the life from which he was starting to discover snippets, but which felt like a storybook in its unlikeliness.

The two men exchanged glances, trying to remember. It was several lifetimes ago. "We went to the pub," said David.

"Was that all?" asked Timothy, not entirely successful in hiding how unimpressed he was. "Was it just you?"

Kenneth shook his head. "No. Tom was there, Tom Anderson," he explained. "He hadn't emigrated at that point. And your uncle Michael, a couple of your father's colleagues from the London and your Auntie Anna's husband. What's his name again?"

"Uncle Tom."

"Yes."

"Great heavens, Ken," remarked David. "Is that the first time you've ever forgotten a name? And I thought you'd recall everyone, where they sat, what they drank and in what order. Getting soft in your old age."

"Well, it wasn't that memorable a night! I do remember that your mum's brother – James, is it? – wasn't there, as he hadn't been demobbed yet and was still in Italy."

"Do you think Dad would've preferred to go to a pub? Constable Noakes had his stag party at one. I didn't think he would. I never knew Dad liked pubs," said Timothy, troubled.

"No," David replied quickly. "This is splendid, much more your dad's scene and you've put infinitely more thought into it than we did. To be entirely honest with you, the war had just ended and there wasn't a lot of anything then. Everything was heavily rationed and we didn't have a great deal of money either. I think more than anything we just wanted to see each other. We'd all been stationed in different places and, frankly, were glad we'd managed to get through unscathed, so the pub was the best we could come up with. Didn't Patrick's boss save the day?" he added, frowning. "I've got a memory of him turning up and telling Patrick he was needed on duty or something and then sticking a donation behind the bar? He couldn't have, though, could he? Patrick didn't start back at work until after the wedding."

Kenneth emitted a surprisingly high pitched giggle. "I'd forgotten that! Yes, his old registrar from when he qualified dropped in and said that if Patrick wanted the hospital job he'd been promised – "

"He would have to start early and was needed that night as flu had run through the staff!" David joined in the laughter. "And Patrick fell for it."

"And went rushing off to the toilet to get ready for work, grumbling endlessly, and it was only after he got back and saw the pint waiting for him and the old chap having one too that he realised!"

"Never learns, does he?" David's shoulders shook. "Keep that one under your hat, Timothy. I don't think Dad would be too pleased to know we'd let it slip. And it was fairly convincing. To be honest, I fell for it too and was most annoyed at the destruction of my best laid plans of mice and men, until after your father nipped off to the bathroom and Dr. Whatever-his-name-was produced his wallet!"

Although he sniggered, Timothy's brow was puckering. "Should the Best Man pay for the stag party? I should, shouldn't I? How much is it? I've been saving my pocket money." He had saved for weeks, carefully calculating that even with the cost of a frame for the photograph Alec had taken that morning of himself and Dad as Shelagh's Christmas present and maybe another frame, if he could persuade Shelagh to have a matching photograph taken as a gift for his father, an inspired suggestion Alec had made while his father was out of earshot, he would still have enough for the longed for Lancaster bomber kit. He had no concept of how much theatre tickets cost or dinner at a restaurant with white linen tablecloths, crystal wineglasses and fine bone china. Somehow he knew they would not be inexpensive. "If I've not got enough, can I pay you back in bits?"

Behind the spectacles of both men was a deep, gentle warmth. "Don't be silly, Timothy. Of course you can't pay. It's our treat. You've done all of the work thinking about what Dad would like, setting it up and organising it. The least we can do is 'Be the money'," said David.

"That's not true, Uncle David," protested Timothy. "You got the tickets and booked the restaurant."

"Logistics. The thinking's the important bit."

"Besides," added Kenneth seriously, "it's not tradition. The ushers – the groom's friends who help out at the wedding service, that's us – pay for the stag party. The Best Man organises things, takes care of the rings and does the speech, so the ushers help out this way."

"Is that really a tradition? Constable Noakes didn't tell me about that."

"It is in Wales. Swallowed a fly or something, have you?" he asked, peering over his glasses as David started to cough violently.

"Hiccoughs," he said, looking away.

"Let us do this, Timothy boy. Please?" said Kenneth earnestly, putting the pipe into his pocket.

"Alright," replied Timothy reluctantly. "Can I give a little bit please, though? You said that Dad's boss did last time."

"If you insist. A very little bit."

"A man has to pay his debts," said David clapping him on the shoulder. He remembered the stubbornness from their last two years at university. Rounds had been painstakingly bought from the carefully husbanded reserves of the older son of a woman suddenly widowed, refusals to take handouts from the wealthy old boy of a distinguished boarding school or the indulged youngest child of an affluent Cardiff solicitor bluntly made. "Why don't we take it off your Christmas present? That's easiest. We'll both give you a smaller Christmas present than usual. Look," he said, quickly changing the subject, "while Dad's out of the way, this is the chance for you two to talk speeches. I will position myself as Surveillance Officer Watson over there and when Dad and I wander over, start talking about the play. Agreed?" Timothy nodded. "Make sure he gives you proper advice, Timothy, and if he doesn't, we'll sack him as an usher." With that last twinkle, he sauntered away.

"I think we should sack Uncle David for cheek! So, the speech. What do you need to know?"

"Did you do the speech when Dad married Mum?"

As though they were strands winding the air, Kenneth caught and identified the elements in the question, separating and considering them: the inquisitiveness covering a certain evasion, something gloomy muddying at the bottom. They were not lost on him as he replied. "Uncle David delivered it, but we wrote it together."

"What did you talk about?"

Kenneth laughed. "Your Dad's terrible cooking, his awful timekeeping, his untidiness. Is this sounding familiar?" Timothy started to giggle. "There were some nice stories too. Uncle David explained he owed his marriage to him, as Auntie Louisa thought Uncle David was a bit of an idiot when he first started trying to woo her and it was your father who persuaded her to give him a chance. We had a couple of anecdotes about why patients always liked him more than us too. I think it was a good speech, he certainly laughed a lot, although," he concluded, "I'm sure yours will be better."

Timothy sighed and scowled at his feet. "I've not started it yet."

Kenneth dropped his voice conspiratorially. "We didn't write ours until the morning of the wedding. Don't tell your father. I'm very ashamed given he did such a marvellous job when I married Aunt Alice." Seeing Timothy's appalled expression, he quickly added, "I would do it differently nowadays."

"I don't even know how to start. Or what I'm supposed to say. Speeches are horrid."

Ignoring the last remark, from the inside pocket of his suit jacket, Kenneth pulled out his diary and fountain pen. "Let's plan it then," he said briskly, jabbing his glasses up to the bridge of the nose. "The usual reason for the Best Man giving a speech is to reply to the groom, because he usually says some nice things about the bridesmaids and then the Best Man says something nice on their behalf, but I don't think Shelagh's having any, is she?" Timothy shook his head. "See, you don't have to be like other speeches anyway and can say what you want. Usually I think it helps to have a theme and then maybe make three or four points. Having the numbers helps the audience to keep up. Does that sound like a good idea?"

"Yes."

"Good. All we need to do is find the theme."

Timothy looked at him awkwardly. "Can you think of anything, Uncle Kenneth? I can't. I know it's supposed to entertain everyone."

"Forget that," Kenneth interrupted. "It doesn't matter. You've got a special thing which you should do, because you're an unusual Best Man and it might be what you want as your theme. It's not often that the Best Man is the groom's son," he explained. "What is it that only you can do?"

"Tell people about Dad?" he offered half-heartedly. As most of his stories had come from his father's friends, he knew the answer was weak.

"No," said Kenneth. "Uncle David could do that. I could do that. Not in quite the same way, but in our own way we could. We couldn't do this. Only you can. Think logically." He waited, then tried again, with a crisp cool clarity which the legion of young trainees who had been through his hands would have instantly recognised, deducing what he did not know. "Did your father ask you if you minded about him getting married again?"

"Yes," said Timothy.

"Did he ask you about it first or propose to Shelagh first?"

"He asked me first."

Kenneth smiled encouragingly. "Why, do you think? Think about it, Timothy boy. Why did it matter? It's the same reason this wedding's special for you as well as for your father."

Slowly, Timothy replied, knowing exactly what he meant by every word. "Because Shelagh's going to be my mum as well as Dad's wife."

"Yes, good." said Kenneth. "Now, who do you think getting married's scarier for? Dad or Shelagh?"

Timothy answered quickly. He had considered the question before. "Shelagh."

"Why?"

"Because she's not been married before."

"Yes. It might even be scarier than giving a speech," he suggested, artfully plucking the muttered grumble back into the discussion. "So, what could you say which would make it less scary?"

"I could tell her about what it's like in our family and what she needs to watch out for with Dad."

Swallowing a guffaw at Timothy's wording, Kenneth jotted down a few words on a page ripped from the diary. "Anything else? What do you think about Shelagh marrying your father? One word, mind."

There were many words, but the first he thought of was the simplest. "Brilliant!"

"Then tell her that. It's called 'welcoming her to the family' and only you can do it. Don't get too gushy about it, as you know your dad gets a little embarrassed about that kind of thing, but if you tell her what you've just told me, outline a few things she needs 'to watch out for with Dad' and tease him just a little bit, you couldn't possibly do a better speech."

"But what about everyone else?"

Kenneth shrugged. "What about them? Who's going to be there, Timothy? Uncle David, me, our families, some of your relatives, Shelagh's sister and her family and some nuns who are like family for Shelagh? It's just a few people, all of whom know and love you and your father and Shelagh. If Dad and Shelagh like it, we will too. I promise." He was a tall man and it was hard for him to hunch, but for a moment he did, meeting the boy at eye level. "_I promise_. And even if we didn't, which we will anyway, does it matter more to you what your father and Shelagh think, or someone else?"

"But - "

Still hunched down and fixing the child's attention on him, he interrupted, with a slight wave of his hand. "No, forget everyone else. Whose opinion matters most to you?"

Timothy smiled. "Dad and Shelagh."

"Exactly. You know him better than anyone. Write the speech you'd give if it was just the three of you at home having dinner before playing board games and you wanted to entertain them." Looking up, his expression altered. "They're coming over. Anything else, quickly?"

Timothy wracked his brains. "Not really. Will you check the speech if I send it to you? Constable Noakes said he would help me and he and Akela have been really great, but you know Dad and he doesn't much."

"Of course." Surreptitiously he slipped the page from the diary to Timothy, still speaking. "I agree. She is the hero. It's interesting having a lady as the hero, isn't it? I don't know if she'd be able to do some of the things she does though if she wasn't pretending to be a man. Ah, the drinks! Thank you, Patrick. We were just agreeing with your assessment that Viola is the hero of the play."

Had Timothy not known the reason for the conversational non sequitur, it would have baffled him. Knowing it, he was more than equal to following it, despite trying not to laugh at the broad wink Uncle David gave him from behind his father's back as he thanked him for the lemonade. "Why does she like Orsino, Uncle Kenneth? I think he's really annoying."

"Why don't we ask your father," said David cheerfully, raising his glass convivially, "given this is his third favourite Shakespeare play! What is it that makes such an impressive young woman fall in love with such an extraordinarily annoying man? Patrick?"

Patrick pulled a face. He had no doubt that David remembered the observation Timothy had made in the train. "It's beyond me. Cheers."


	20. Chapter 20

**Thank you so much to everyone who keeps reading this and in particular to all of the lovely reviewers for their support and endless encouragement. I really love the fact that CTM has such cultured and sophisticated fans that after the rabbiting on about _Twelfth Night _in the last chapter, some of the reviewers ended up discussing whether Orsino really was annoying or not! And I also feel very grateful to all the people who kept reading despite all the rabbiting on about _Twelfth Night_! :)**

Trixie laughed blithely. "It sounds terribly funny. How did you keep your face straight?"

"It wasn't easy," admitted Shelagh. "He didn't know at first that I knew and I think he was trying desperately to come up with a way of apologising to me without upsetting Timothy, who was terribly excited and proud of what he'd managed to organise. Poor Patrick," she finished, returning to the autoclave, but her eyes diffidently flickered up over her glasses at Cynthia and Trixie just as she turned. It had been instinctive to say what she had, but although she could not be sure, she suspected it was the first time she had ever used his name in front of them.

"He's never going to trust you again!" said Trixie, her eyes and mouth wide, with a short silent squeal at Cynthia.

Shelagh smiled. Although she had seen the squeal, she made no comment on it as she lowered forceps and clamps into the water and shut the lid. "I suspect I'm forgiven." Even before he had left the Watsons' house in two or three minutes alone which Louisa contrived for them she had known it. A few still moments by the car outside Nonnatus House before they shook Timothy awake so she could say goodnight and receive his sleepy reply had been the reassurance she had not needed; a merry promise that one day soon they would go to the theatre together, made as he tucked loose wisps of her hair behind her ear with proprietorial ease, slowing into a burning kiss from the chilly lips and at last the whisper she felt hot and earnest against her skin, offered in shadows where his face could not be seen and so quietly the last few words could scarcely be heard: "Thank you. For Timothy's sake. It meant so much to him, my dear, dear love."

The confidence of the simple answer captivated Cynthia, the mystery of the romance haunting her imaginations like morning mist. "Did you like Dr. Turner's friends?"

"Very much. They were very nice." She felt the response's blandness, trying ineffectually to modify it. "I only got to meet them for about an hour before they had to take the train back into the city and then a little after they got back – it was late and Timothy was a wee bit of a drowsy poppy, so we needed to get home! But they were lovely."

"Were they what you expected?" asked Trixie curiously.

Answering that question easily was impossible. David Watson had been close to what she had imagined, broader than in the student photographs and bespectacled now, his sandy hair steadily thinning, but the dry good-humour exactly as she had imagined. She had predicted the urbane confidence which saw his lips twitch at Patrick's unambiguous note of pride when introducing her, then come towards her, announcing "Shelagh, you've endured lunch with my wife and been brave enough to come back for more. I'll claim the right to more than a handshake." greeting her with a kiss. He was jovial and hospitable, a tea cup materialising by her elbow within minutes of arriving, a sherry glass later, the witty squabbling with his wife a form of entertainment which fooled nobody; and if he watched her closely with Patrick, initially failing to hide a tiny bubble of protectiveness, she liked him more for it.

In one moment, however, the guard came down and she learnt more of him than she could have done from a year of pleasantries. Returning to the sitting room after freshening up, the first flurry of introductions over, she saw Louisa and David standing by the side of the room, he behind her, an arm around her waist, both contemplating a sight with rare restfulness: Patrick at the other side of the room with the three small boys, willingly answering questions from nine year old Oliver about some toy while dextrously managing Alex and Timothy. He was serene and happy. Then he looked up, smiling with such radiance when he saw her that she choked. Still he smiled, even more broadly, from behind an arm flapped to regain his attention; then, before he returned to the child, he shrugged, grinned, and very fleetingly winked at her. Quickly she looked over at the Watsons, nervously expecting a mischievous face pulled at her. But they were still watching Patrick, Louisa's bottom lip unmistakably trembling and kissed it and David's face suffused with pleasure, resting his head gently against his wife's.

Kenneth Rees had been more of a surprise. She had heard too much from both Patrick and Timothy to see the Holmes nickname as originating from anything more than an outstanding mind and early affected pipe-smoking. She had no expectation of finding him cold or haughty. Somehow, however, she had had in mind an air of remote intelligence and, despite knowing him to be Welsh, a peculiarly English reserve. Nothing had prepared her for how very Welsh he was, the undulating voice like music, or the intellect which was not distant, but passionate, eager to share not from vanity but enthusiasm. Tall and thin, he struck her as a great, kindly giraffe, ushering her into a seat next to him, asking animatedly about her journey and visit to Scotland, riposting in kind to David's jibe that Shelagh should ignore any questions as it would encourage him to tell her what type of engine the locomotive by which she had travelled had. His parting words, tumbling from him as she and Patrick left the Watsons for their moonlit drive home accompanied by a tightening handshake, were ones of immeasurable worth: 'I'm so very pleased for you and Patrick, I really am. It's marvellous to see him happy again. He's a good man, Shelagh, he really is. Very loyal and very kind. Stubborn bugger, mind, but such a good man.'

It was not David or Kenneth who had been unexpected. It had been Patrick.

How he would be with his friends had fascinated her, Louisa's stories hinting at a man she recognised but painted in different colours. But to see him with his friends was to see fleshed out a deeper man, more complex, more rich in character. There was a lazy effortlessness to his manner, a greater confidence in his interactions, dabbling in ironic wit, faintly veiled insults and forceful opinions, unafraid to hold back. She saw glimpses of this man when they were together, in ever increasing glimmers of self-assurance, but still he cradled her in those moments like precious crystal, while with David and Kenneth, and even occasionally Louisa, the handling had the delicacy of an expert hurling a cricket ball. It was in a woman's world that she had always seen him; not only the nuns and midwives, but their patients too, men infantilised and reduced by illness until the doctor was someone in whom they placed a terrified childish trust, hoping he would make things well. He was an oddity from the other world walking in and out around them, whom they, by turn and temperament, obeyed, respected, deferred to or harangued, giggled and gossiped about, occasionally tried unsuccessfully to flirt with and, in her case alone, had fallen in love with. She did not know how he was with the other nurses, but knew he gave her professional respect in a way few other doctors ever had. In complex procedures the two of them moved between following and leading with the instinctive skill of dancers. Yet beyond the sick room, in the company of her world he responded to their behaviours and reactions through a gentlemanliness long learnt. The chivalry charmed them, but she saw now how it had diminished him, how much more he was able to be in the world of men, among his peers and equals. It was not frightening, but even in its intriguing allure, it startled her. She had anticipated the turning of the leaf to reveal a new, unread page to Patrick; instead she found a second volume, written in a language she only partially understood.

How strange it was, this world of men, of inflection and understatement, where wit took the place of sentiment and gesture the place of emotion; where one friend, as close to Patrick as a brother, would greet him with the observation 'Good heavens, a miracle! You're on time.' and Patrick himself would warn her 'Don't ask him about his conference paper, darling. He'll only force you to read it.' about the other friend, whose skill and success filled him with unending pride; where at the end of the night Patrick would silently ask David for his opinion by the slightest raise of his eyebrows, receiving the answer in a warm clap on the shoulder where the fingers tightened along with two short, emphatic nods. So little was ever said or shown, but these men, she knew, had bled for each other's suffering and would have done anything for one another. Was it early learnt, this way of living, taught as the way to be a man? Thinking of how David rebuked Alex's complaint that he wanted to go to the play as well, the reprise of a grievance clearly made before, she thought that it must be. It was kind, but robust, brooking neither opposition nor sulking.

"You think it's unfair, do you?" A nod and a mutter. "Well, it's not, so accept it and don't grouse. Timothy's younger, yes, but he's Best Man and Uncle Patrick's son. I know you're his godson, but that's not relevant here. If it were the other way around and I were remarrying, you and Oliver would be going and Timothy wouldn't, even though he's my godson. Come on. I need you to be man of the house tonight and you know what that means."

"Help Mum. Entertain the guests. Serve out the drinks. Don't annoy Katherine and Ollie."

"And defend the honour of the house of Watson! Good lad."

She took off her glasses and polished them slowly before she turned around. Cynthia was sitting at the table, while Trixie stood, carefully repacking her bag, both waiting for her answer. "In the main they were. They were very clever and pleasant and obviously extremely fond of Timothy, and his father, which was lovely to see. I suppose it wasn't entirely what I expected."

"But in a good way?" asked Trixie, sincerely.

"Yes," she smiled, "in a good way." In a way that tempted wonderfully for the future, if she could find the way to it. "Now, tell me," she asked, replacing her spectacles, "why is it that I 'have' to be here at teatime?"

Trixie and Cynthia chuckled at each other. "You'll see," replied Trixie.

"It's ever so nice!" said Cynthia.

As the front door bell went, Trixie sighed and pouted.

"I'll go," offered Cynthia.

"No, it's me on call," she said, hands on hips. "It's probably that awful woman again, wanting to borrow a baby for the nativity service or something. Honestly, I know men of the cloth need to love the unlovable, but I never knew it had to be quite as close to home!"

"Which awful woman?" asked Shelagh.

Cynthia looked embarrassed. "Mrs. Clark."

"Cynthia!"

"I know we shouldn't say that about the Rector's wife. She's been terribly rude though, even worse than she was over the summer fete." As Cynthia detailed the incessant demands for assistance, each one entirely ignoring the house's work, its perilous future or the nuns' long practice of Advent reflection and prayer, Shelagh could not help but sympathise with Trixie's irritation. But the second voice emerging from the hall was low and indistinguishable, while Trixie's cadences were playful. It was hard to hear over the sharp slap of the kitchen door closing, however the sounds were not the tactless efficiency of the Rector's wife.

"I think you'll find exactly what you're looking for in here!" Trixie said, reappearing in the doorway and then stepping back as she finished the sentence, beckoning Cynthia to follow her.

"Good afternoon, Nurse Miller," said Patrick, as Cynthia padded away, her eyes flitting in wonderment between Shelagh and the man now leaning against the doorframe, indulgently shaking his head. "Back to work in January, then?"

Shelagh hung her head. "There were so many delivery packs to be distributed and Jane had so much to do." When she looked up, he was still shaking his head. "Don't scold me, Patrick!"

"I wouldn't dare," he said, his voice sepulchral and amused.

"They need the instruments, Patrick."

"Of course."

"Maybe even a few doctors need them too for their evening calls?" she queried. "They'll be ready in ten minutes."

He laughed. "Perhaps. But this one's only here because he wants to see you." His eyes softened. "And here you are. Back where you belong."

They had talked many times in this room about their work. Once they had spoken of Timothy and grief. The last time, she had entered beaming with pleasure at his day of triumph and exited like a sleepwalker, numbed and broken. He was right that this was a return, but not as a circle to the beginning. Shyly, she walked over to him and gently kissed him, taking his face in her hands when she felt his lips part and respond to her. "Now I am," she whispered.

"Can I steal you for a little while?" he asked, arms around her. "I've got calls all evening so I was going to go home for dinner with Timothy now. I know that sounds ridiculous at four o'clock."

"I can't," she said forlornly. "I'm sorry. Not today. I promised the others that I would have tea with them. They've been terribly insistent. Stay," she suggested. "Take tea with us? Just for a few minutes? Perhaps it won't take long."

Patrick tightened his hold. "I took a step in that direction a moment ago and the door was resolutely shut in my face, so I suspect this time I might not be welcome!" His expression was hangdog as he continued. "I hope you won't think any the less of me for this, Shelagh, but when you all get together, I find it terrifying!"

"Really?"

"Definitely. A screaming patient is easier than that kitchen without back up. Fred's not around?" She shook her head. "Peter Noakes?" She was rippling with laughter. "Takes a man with more courage than I have," he said, with a slight, comic shudder.

Shelagh gave a small chuckle. "A little like the Sierra Leoneans' description of Chummy? 'A lot of woman'?"

He snorted. "Exactly." He was leaning down to kiss her again when they felt the sudden draft behind them.

"Oh, for goodness sake!" puffed a voice irritably. "I hope this isn't what we'll have to put up with in the future. It's bad enough with silly young girls with their heads full of dances and lipstick and nonsense all over the place. You should both know better!" Sister Evangelina dropped her bag on the table with an ominous thump and stalked away.

Although they both laughed, Patrick pulled away immediately. "I should go." Only the interlaced fingers touched as they walked to the front door. "Will I see you for lunch tomorrow?" he asked, one finger briefly on her cheek. Shelagh nodded. "Until then." Checking they were alone, he quickly kissed her and paced down the stairs, wondering, not for the first time, how on earth Peter Noakes coped with living at Nonnatus House.

From the top of the stairs, Shelagh watched him, silent in thought, waving as the car turned the corner. It was only when she heard the little voice of Jane that she shut the door and walked into the kitchen.

The cheers and claps of delight erupted as she entered from around a table laid with the grander spread they usually experienced only on birthdays. They were all there, Jenny and Sister Evangelina just returned from calls, Sister Julienne tranquil after a time of private prayer, Sister Monica Joan nibbling crumbs from a pilfered biscuit, Trixie gleeful, Cynthia relieving Chummy of a mewling Freddie. Even Rachel Simpson, weary from a disturbing case, smiled uncertainly, drawn into the festive atmosphere. In the middle of the table, flanked by sandwiches and biscuits, was a lemon sponge, baked and iced by Mrs. B.; two vases of flowers stood on either side, the gift of Fred.

"Congratulations!" cried Trixie, drawing her to the table with cosy familiarity.

Confused, Shelagh looked, by instinct, to Sister Julienne for explanation. "Is this – for me?"

"Of course you!" exclaimed Trixie. "No-one else's getting married, unless they're a very dark horse!"

A yowl from Freddie and a chair scraped across the floor disguised Sister Julienne's reply, but Shelagh still heard both the voice's joy and tremor. "We cannot take you to the theatre, perhaps, but we want to celebrate your happiness with you. Many, many congratulations, Shelagh!"

She had no words to express what she felt and Shelagh was starting to look down when Sister Julienne took her hand and held it closely between both of her own. Then were the others, Sister Monica Joan leaning across the table to her, Sister Evangelina blowing her nose and patting Shelagh's shoulder as she handed out teacups and chatter sparkling throughout the room.

"This is so kind. It's lovely. Thank you," said Shelagh, blinking and biting her lip as she looked fondly around at them all. Chummy, however, was still standing, her arms hanging as though they were disconnected from her body. "Would you like some tea, Chummy?"

"Um," she began, her voice unnaturally high, "in a moment. Something to show you first." In the blurred corners of her peripheral vision, Shelagh thought she saw the nurses start to lean forward. Certainly she heard an excited, giggling squeal. "It's not finished yet, of course, as we need to do final fittings and if there's anything you don't think is absolutely spiffing, then there's plenty of time to make it all ship-shape and Bristol fashion."

"Chummy!" said Trixie, in frustration. "Get on with it!"

"Gosh, sorry." From her chair, Chummy picked up the dress over which she had spent many hours and handed it to Shelagh. "I do awfully hope you like it."

Standing up, Shelagh unfolded the dress and she gasped. She had never read fashion magazines, but she read newspapers and she remembered the photographs of that wedding, its extraordinary magic and romance, where Hollywood met a fairy tale. And she remembered Grace Kelly's dress, the modest high collar and long sleeves, the lace which covered its fitted bodice and long skirt, its ageless beauty. The dream lay now within her hands, reworked by those who loved her.

"'Pretty as a princess?'" she asked softly, but the irony was light and she had no heart to tease as she touched the cloth, turning the dress over to examine it, struggling to reconcile this gift with herself. It was simple in its construction, but as far removed from the drab plain garments she saw as fitting for herself as the glamour of Monaco was from the humble world in which she toiled. No false clutter was added to mar the artlessness of its line, only tiny, meticulous details in hemming and buttons or the darts which would mould it to her form and make it perfect. It rippled over her hands, shimmering with the purity of the beautiful cloth. Going first to Chummy, she kissed her. Then she held the dress up against herself, smoothing it down, listening for their reactions in their murmurs, for she could not see their faces any longer through her welling tears.


	21. Chapter 21

**Here's the next instalment, which is sort of Chapter 15, Part 2. [It also goes on a bit - sorry. As with Chapter 15, I'm nervous about posting these two chapters.] As always, thank you to everyone: the people who've reviewed and kept on reviewing time and again, the people who are following it, the people who have 'favourited' [OK - not a word, I know!] it and to everyone who is reading it. I know it's been months since Series Two finished here in Australia and even longer elsewhere and the fact that people are still reading this, when it is taking months to get finished, is really amazing. Thank you! x**

"Morning."

"Greetings, Dr. Turner."

He was already smiling, lounging back in his office chair, before she finished the distinctive roll at the start of the first syllable. "Hello, Shelagh."

"Fred's finished it."

"Really?"

"Yes." Her voice was low and excited, the wellspring of fun which had been thwarted for the previous three days bubbling once more. "He just showed me."

"And it will do, you think?"

"I think it'll be perfect. It's a wee bit big at the moment."

"He'll grow into it."

"That's what I thought." He imagined her, nodding with her eyes widening and her lips set. "Patrick, about how to get it to yours without Timothy finding out – could I take it there? Then there'd be no worry about it being in the car when you might have to rush from a call to picking him up."

"You can't possibly," he said hastily. "I can collect it this evening when Timothy's at Cubs."

"What if he saw it? I don't mind delivering it. I'd like to."

Patrick started fiddling with the cord of the telephone, frowning as he processed the suggestion. "But how would – " he began, before suddenly chuckling. "You mean ride it home, don't you?"

"Well, yes," she replied begrudgingly.

"You're a bit big, aren't you?" The comment slipped from his lips before he realised the insult which could be construed and scrambled to retract it. "I don't mean to suggest – "

There was something liberating in her laughter. "It's rather nice to be told I'm too big for something, even if it is a child's bicycle! It doesn't happen much! I'm sure I'll be fine, Patrick."

It was instinct to say 'no', dreading the thought of her rattling over cobbles and gulping in the grubby air; trying not to imagine that air solidifying into the same filthy blanket which had hung over them for the past three days, in which she would be hidden and obscured, so easy to smash. He heard her bright confidence and behind the wheedling, a note in the voice made him certain she had already tried the bicycle, that while Fred was showing her repairs, she had checked them by cycling in neat circles around the entrance to Nonnatus House. Braving the crush, though, would be different. Yet she was not his to command; it was unease, not logic, motivating him. With a small sigh, he conceded. "Is there a particular time you had in mind?"

"This afternoon? I could easily get there and still be back in time for Timothy coming for tea."

"No!" It was more abrupt than he had intended and he paused awkwardly, twisting the cord more tightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to sound like that, but would you mind very much not going then?" he asked.

"Of course." Despite the crackling line, he heard her muted confusion.

"It's just there's something being delivered this afternoon and I'm not sure when."

"I see," she said quietly. "No, I understand. Mrs. Harrison'll be busy. She won't want anyone else bothering round. Perhaps later on."

"It's not that, Shelagh, not at all," he interrupted, secrecy less important than that she understood. "What's being delivered is for you. From me. The groom's present to the bride."

"Oh," she said, less a word than an exhalation.

"I'd just like to be able to show it to you myself first, if you don't mind."

"I'd prefer you to, Patrick." The bewilderment now was a modest disbelief. "Maybe I could go to yours this evening after Timothy's gone to Cubs and you've finished your calls, rather than you coming to visit me. It would be nice to be there."

The greatest eloquence was what she did not say. They had had their lunch on Tuesday, snatched between rounds and the clinic, yet as they shared the mundane gems of their day and planned to meet that evening, the low clouds of the long expected smog began their toxic roll into every corner of Poplar. From then until it started to disperse this morning, she had been trapped within Nonnatus House, their short trysts amid its structured disarray and constantly watching eyes. An evening, an hour, with no fear of interruption was a glorious prospect; and while he would have preferred to pick her up, albeit to whisk her away immediately, bypassing the danger of being drawn into an earnest professional discussion with colleagues there while time drifted away made it more lovely. Suppressing his last misgivings, he agreed, even to her cycling there, wondering how long it might take until she thought of 'ours', not 'yours' and if he could ever make her speak of 'home'.

It had barely registered against the nightmare smogs of earlier years, yet the cloud had pervaded every street, drenching houses, pavements, side streets and thoroughfares with filth and lethargy. People themselves seemed to stick in the air, tethered by the enervating haze; children long accustomed to playing and babbling in the streets were crammed into tiny rooms to antagonise and fight; living itself became tougher in the battle through the murk.

For Shelagh, uncalled for by patients and begged to stay indoors, its cool disorder was felt in uneasy undercurrents. Throughout Nonnatus House a breathing exhaustion sucked goodwill from nurses fighting worry and fatigue to make the longer, more precarious journeys to bedsides. It heightened nerves and sharpened words. As though infected by the weather, every aspect of life was tarnished. A cutting remark from Trixie to Jenny erupted into an argument. Rachel Simpson followed up a case which concerned her, only to find something even more putrid than she had anticipated at its heart. Chummy received a letter which disturbed her, but which she would only discuss with Peter.

Her solace was Patrick and Timothy, Timothy appearing every afternoon, more than happy to obey his father by waiting at Nonnatus House until he could be picked up or go straight to pantomime rehearsals rather than venturing home then out once more. He quickly adapted, enlisting the assistance of any and all in revising for his tests, repaying them with accounts of school or by announcing that he thought he had got a merit in his violin exam, as he had taken a surreptitious upside down peek at the marks sheet while he chattered to the examiner at the end. Patrick visited every evening, often tense and always tired, but grateful, loving and assiduous that these short period were theirs, not the practice's or the community's. But when they were absent, anxiety was her commonest companion and she fretted whenever she knew his car was prowling uncertainly through the gloom.

Of all the residents, however, it was Sister Monica Joan who felt the sickness of the weather the most, finding something invisible to the others in its brutal whimsy. Like the confusion of mist, her mind clouded and unclouded, cruel and pitiful in her capriciousness. She needled her sisters, at first too clever to be unconscious, then in pockets of oblivious absence. Grasping at fragments, she demanded to visit a patient in a street which had obliterated by the first wave of the Blitz, haughty in her insistence that an appointment was booked and she had delivered an older child the previous year, petulant when Sister Julienne remonstrated with her; then, minutes later, lucid when Cynthia spoke of a case which needed referring for surgery; finally, lost and blank, staring at the knitting placed in her hands by Jane as though it was incomprehensible. Again and again she returned to the topic of the demolition. "They're turning me from my home, you know! They are throwing me among the wolves!" she whined. "'I wander thro' each charter'd street Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe.'" Again and again they tried to reassure her, attempting to distract her with oddments and petting, then hearing the bitter recrimination of a mind momentarily reconstructed, weary in the knowledge of one who feared she had lived too long, "Do not mock me with trinkets for children."

She took to wandering the house by night, a troubled, beautiful ghost in her pale nightgown with the silver hair loose. On the Wednesday night, Shelagh, returning from washing her own hair, found her at the top of the stairs, fingering the leaves of a budding hyacinth.

"Sister? You must be perishing, Sister! Let's be getting you back to bed."

As Shelagh touched her, Sister Monica Joan stared. A white towel was wound around Shelagh's head and in the shadowy light of the corridor, the dark dressing gown she wore over her winceyette nightie could so easily appear the same colour as the navy blue ones belonging to the Order. It was these that the old lady's eyes searched, then moving to Shelagh's face uncertainly. "You are someone who was, are you not?"

Although she tried not to show it, Shelagh's distress was bitter. Since she had returned from Scotland, Sister Monica Joan had often called her 'Sister', but sometimes nothing, smiling vaguely as at an acquaintance. She suspected she did not always know her. The next day left no question. When Shelagh leant towards her to comfort the old lady in her querulousness and terror, she shrank back, snatching her hand away. "Why are you talking to me? Who are you?"

"I'm Shelagh," she replied, feeling the comment as though she had been struck, certain that who she was and what she had been was too complex for the fraying mind. "Dr. Turner's fiancée," she added. Sister Monica Joan recognised him, beaming when he visited and scolding him for his love of rotting matter, and accepted that connection as sufficient to explain Shelagh's presence while Shelagh disguised her hurt.

Yet a darker truth unsettled her more: she did not know herself what 'Shelagh' meant any longer. She had found a role in the days of the smog: the practical, smiling voice of concord, comforting and advising as desired. Calming Jenny and Trixie was not new to her, while she was accustomed to counselling colleagues and quietly listened as Rachel Simpson struggled with the horrors she had outlined to the police, all she had seen and what it might mean. She did not pry into Chummy's uneasiness, instead simply cared for Freddie so Chummy could rest or unobtrusively completed ironing while she did. But the role had stultified her. It was with a desperate need to unleash pent up energy that she pushed down the pedals of the little bicycle shortly after six o'clock, feeling it gathering in speed as she rode down the slope towards All Saints Road. In previous years she had found private release from domestic disharmony in her work and its bursts of adrenalin, heady instances where her brain was a fine membrane flexed by her to master professional puzzles, and her exercised body knew itself alive in its vigour; or in slow breathed meditations where she wrapped herself in silence, finding peace in communion with God alongside her kin. With neither comfort, sitting and waiting in Nonnatus House had been like a great weight heavily dragging her back to the weeks in the sanatorium. Passing the hall where Timothy was starting to rehearse, unaware his Christmas present was being displayed to the world, she felt the quickening of her blood as it drove into muscles and tendons roused again from torpor.

It was dark and cold, the grey gabardine she was wearing not wholly adequate to keep the chill at bay, but each pedal stroke or deeply drawn breath warmed her with her own vitality and freedom while the foetid stink of oil, sweat and water suddenly slapping at her nostrils as she took a particular short-cut had the abrasiveness of smelling salts. They blew away mustiness so she saw all the elements which defined her: the coat was a nurse's, loaned from the supplies of the religious order which she loved and honoured as family, strapped on the back of the bicycle was a bag borrowed from Cynthia, containing her smarter, prettier shoes, her handbag and a neatly wrapped parcel for the man she was travelling to see, her fiancé, and at his house they would listen and share, confide and be confided in as they held one another. Each part was a part of her, cautiously moving towards each other, but at the moment borrowed, loaned, patched and impermanent; and even together still so much less than 'Shelagh', unless bound up with something else, something intangible outside of herself.

As she arrived at the house, light was spilling into the driveway from an open front door and Shelagh wondered if Patrick was waiting for her, calculating when she might have left. It was Mrs. Harrison, however, who was silhouetted in the door frame putting out the milk bottles and who gave a cheerful wave, admired the bicycle, then cordially welcomed her inside. She did not wait, but discretely melted away and Shelagh was standing alone in the hallway, unobtrusively taking off her coat and wondering what to do with it, fumbling with the buckle of the bag in front of the shut doors.

Neatly leaving them on a chair by the telephone, she listened. There was music playing. Crossing the hallway to Patrick's study it became louder and she tapped on the door.

"Yes?"

His voice sounded hoarse Shelagh thought as she pushed the door open, spotting a radio she had not noticed before. Patrick was sat rather awkwardly at his desk, an empty knife, fork and plate forlornly beside him and a cigarette dwindling in his hand, absorbed by the stack of paper in front of him. Even from the door she saw an unmistakable look of disgust on his face. It was only when she spoke that he looked around.

"Hello."

Like leisurely, blinking sunshine, his smile appeared. "Hello!" Stubbing out the cigarette, he came to greet her. "Is it that time already? I'd completely lost track. You're a sight for sore eyes."

"Tired eyes too, perhaps?" she asked lightly, watching him closely.

Patrick wrinkled his nose. "A little. Paperwork. A report I have to write up."

"Nurse Simpson's neglect case?"

His eyes were suddenly alert. "She told you?" She nodded. "Thank God," he muttered, in relief, knowing there was no confidentiality to be broken. "I think neglect's a rather generous choice of word, Shelagh." His tone was acidic, without the slightest strain of humour. "It takes a lot to break even one bone when they are that young, let alone several."

She had seldom seen the kindling fury in his eyes, maybe only when they faced the board and his passion and sarcasm ripped down the wall she had been so determined to keep between them. In place of words, she touched his arm, waiting until the lines on his face smoothed into different contours to lay her head softly against his shoulder and let him sigh and lean his head against hers.

When he bounced a kiss against her temple a minute later, she knew she had been successful before he spoke. "Alright, let's see it then. Where did you put it?"

"Outside. Against the wall." He smiled and together they went to bring in the bicycle, Patrick carrying it into the hall. "What do you think?"

"No problems with it on the way here?" he asked, crouching down to take an appreciative look.

"No, none. Very smooth and responsive. Fred's done a wonderful job repairing it for us."

"Agreed!" he said, with one last check of the brakes, then looked appraisingly at both the bicycle and Shelagh, a puckish expression on his face. "You know, it really isn't actually that small for you, is it? His old one might suit you rather well." He smirked across the bicycle, as her eyes narrowed, unaware of how close she had come to sticking her tongue out at him. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely. Shall I make it?"

He shook his head. "Let me stick this in the study and I'll do it. I need to take my plate down anyway."

"Are you sure that's wise?" He looked at her quizzically, failing to follow her train of thought. "It would involve a complex procedure in the kitchen, after all, Patrick," she explained straight-faced.

"I deserved that, didn't I?" he chuckled. "I will endeavour not to burn the water! Go and put your feet up, sweetheart. Find a record to stick on."

He was gone less time than she had expected and she had only just selected the record from Patrick's eclectic collection by the time he returned, the prettiness of the china on the tray and the neat slices of cake a giveaway. "Had Mrs. Harrison already made it?"

He grinned, peering over her shoulder. "Nat King Cole?" It was not what he expected, although he was not sure exactly what that would have been. He smiled to himself as walked towards the table listening for the machine's familiar crackle and the chocolate voice, although it turned to a grimace as he set down the tray.

"Are you quite well, Patrick? You look as though you're in pain."

"Yes, I'm fine," he said briefly. "I had something arrive today from the department," he continued, as he poured out the tea, a strange, indefinable note in his voice.

"What was it?"

Handing her her cup first, he produced a parcel, wrapped in pale paper, and an envelope. The merriment in the eyes was less guarded than the voice. "A wedding present, if you'll believe it."

She started to giggle. "From whom?"

"I think you should read the accompanying letter!"

Intrigued she opened it, scanning its typed lines until she saw the signature and burst out laughing. "Mr. Hurst? Oh Patrick, I hope you feel guilty for all those things you've said about him when he, what does it say, wishes 'every happiness for your forthcoming happy day to you and your delightful fiancée on behalf of the National Health Service.'"

"Unctuous twerp. Can we smash it, whatever it is?"

"It might be useful."

"So is a nuclear deterrent. It doesn't mean I want one in my house."

She hooted and sipped her tea before unwrapping what proved to be a fruit bowl, entirely inoffensive and devoid of thought in its selection.

"There's another one arrived too, Shelagh," said Patrick. The second parcel, collected from the alcove on the left on the fireplace, was far smaller and the handwriting on the envelope shaky, but as he joined her on the settee, Patrick handed it to her with a fond, nostalgic smile.

"Who?"

"Dr. Calvert. Donald Calvert. I really ought to call him Donald now."

She knew the name from stories he had told: the kindly man, near the end of his career even twenty years ago, who mentored Patrick in his first job and helped him to find work after he was demobbed. She suspected from his face why the parcel had been sent. "He can't come to the wedding, can he?"

"It was always a long shot. He's very frail physically now. The letter's lovely." Seeing her hesitate, he encouraged her. "Read it. It's for you too."

The writing wobbled over the page in a painful struggle, but it made the letter sweeter. In a few phrases he wished them the joy he had formerly known with his own adored wife and she caught the scent of memories precious to Patrick of a couple who adopted the newly qualified doctors he mentored in lieu of the children they had never had. Reading it for the second time, she curled up against Patrick, within the arm he placed around her as they opened the gift – a set of linen napkins - together.

"I'm sorry you can't meet him. You would like him. He's a dear man."

"Perhaps we can visit him in his nursing home. I'm so sorry, Patrick."

He shook his head and sighed. "It would've been too much of a strain for him simply to get to Poplar, so it's just as well. I've spent my whole career pondering what would be worse: to be as sharp as a needle and barely able to move like Donald Calvert or robustly spry with a mind that's falling apart like Eric, and I'm no closer to an answer." Against him, Patrick felt Shelagh shiver. He did not know why, nor did he inquire; but he drained his tea and put the cup down to draw her closer and rest his chin on her head. "Joan telephoned me a couple of days ago, I can't remember if I told you. Did I?"

"No. How is she?"

"She's well. She sends you her very warm regards. She's worked out a way she can manage to come next week without disrupting Eric. James will come down for the day and take care of his father and Joan will come to the wedding with Anna and Tom."

"I'm sorry to put them to so much bother." Even with her face against his pullover, the voice was unnaturally muffled.

"She wanted to come. She liked you very much when she met you. But Eric wouldn't cope. He'd get too confused. Half the time he can't remember that Elizabeth's dead. He complains to Joan on a regular basis that she hasn't been to visit recently. Often he doesn't recognise Timothy anymore." Although she smothered the sound, he heard a tiny sob. Clasping her by her shoulders so she could not hide her face, Patrick twisted away from her. "Shelagh? Sweetheart, what is it?"

"She doesn't know me."

Initially he frowned and then he guessed, "Sister Monica Joan?"

"Yes."

For some seconds he only watched her, tenderly stroking her soft hair, before letting his hand rest at the base of her neck. "What did she say?"

"She asked me why I was talking to her and who I was."

"And what did you say?"

"That I was 'Shelagh'. It meant nothing until I told her that I was your fiancée. She knows you, she remembers you."

"And tomorrow morning over breakfast she may start recounting every detail of the things you did as a novice and not know me." His tone was practical, but he slowly ran a soothing hand over her hair again. "Or she'll know both of us and start quoting embarrassing snatches of love poetry. Or she may not know either of us. You know how the illness goes."

"Yes, I know. It was a shock, that was all." She wanted to add more yet it was impossible to say, something felt not expressible.

"I can imagine. She knows you. She just can't find her way around the blocks into the memory."

She smiled weakly. "She's taken to wandering again. On Wednesday night I caught her and she had a good stare at me and asked me wasn't I 'someone who was'?"

"'Someone who was'?" They both briefly laughed. "What a wonderfully Sister Monica Joan phrase. Only she could come up with something like that. She's in there still." Leaning forward he lightly kissed her, first her brow, then her lips. "Aren't we all people who 'were', really? Bumbling along from what we've been into something else we're going to be? It's getting from A to B that's complicated."

Was it instinct, Shelagh wondered, how he pinpointed the anxiety she could not verbalise, the mildly roundabout way he commented on it delicacy, or the end of long ruminations of his own? She could not know, but the heaviness felt easier, the tunnel brighter, and she relaxed against his left arm and was moving towards him when his face distorted.

"Patrick, what is it? And don't say you're fine. You're obviously in pain."

"It really isn't anything."

"Patrick."

"My shoulder's giving me jip. It's a bit stiff," he confessed.

"Rheumatism?" she teased.

He snorted, then winced as the movement of his snigger snapped against his shoulder. "Thanks," he commented darkly. "I'm not that old! It's just tight, a combination of things. Too much paperwork? I grip the steering wheel tighter in smog in case I have to react suddenly. I think I slept awkwardly last night too. There's a draft somewhere in the spare room, I'm certain of it, though I can't work out where it is coming from."

Had it been one of the sisters or a colleague, she would have offered to look at the shoulder, sitting them down until she had found a way to relieve them of pain. In Scotland, she had examined a troublesome ankle of Alistair, Rob's brother, unembarrassed to sit in front of him flexing the strained muscles and ligaments. But suddenly she felt shy of asking Patrick's permission to help him. Instead, she pursued the distracting final comment. "Why were you sleeping in the spare room? I thought Mr. Warren had finished?"

"He has," replied Patrick. "He finished a week ago. I haven't put the furniture back yet, because I didn't know where you'd want everything to go." His eyes wandered, not fully meeting hers, while he slowly continued. "And now that it's decorated, I didn't want to move into it until it was both of us moving in, together." Once more his eyes rose to hers.

"I see," she said, the voice emboldened. "Patrick, let me check your shoulder."

"Don't be silly, it's only a twinge."

"Just to check it's not something more serious."

"It's not."

"Please, Patrick." Her eyes had not moved from his face.

That face distorted again, in a different way, the lips puckering, and he swallowed. "It doesn't need a proper examination."

It was only half a concession, but when she stood up, he accepted it and turned his back towards her. Still she was hesitant and paused before she reached out to feel his shoulder blades through the cotton shirt and dark green pullover.

She gasped as she touched him; a line of gnarled roots snarled at her. "Patrick, you're all knots! You must be in terrible discomfort." Little by little she moved along the line of his shoulders, feeling each wave of tautness, finally coming to a spot, two inches below his neck, where the flesh had fossilised. As she reached it, the tendons in his neck emerged like knives, but he made no sound.

"There?"

"Yes."

His diagnosis was correct; it was only tightness in the muscles holding together a body wearing years of strain. But it was angry. Slipping her thumb below the pullover, through the thin shirt she felt the shudder underneath her hand as she pressed and over the music continuing to croon from the gramophone, she heard his sharp breath.

"Can you raise your arm?"

She did not cease the pressure as he followed the request, raising his arm until the angle changed and the muscle contracted and the tightly wound coil suddenly subsided with a vicious click.

"That's it," said Patrick, letting his arm fall again.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much."

Shelagh did not move away, however. She placed both of her hands on top of the pullover again, its wool scratching at her palms, but stretched her fingers up the top of his shoulder, her index fingers leaning against his collar, almost at the top, so close to his neck that she would have grazed it if he raised his head by the smallest degree, while her thumbs manipulated the area which had caused such pain. Gradually her pressure lessened, but still she continued, watching his head curl into his chest and a sluggish pink burn spread over his neck and the line of his jaw, moving away from the neck and along the line of his shoulders. What objective cool she had started with had long evaporated, brushed away by the strange intimacy of what they both knew was now no examination but a caress.

Suddenly the music vanished, replaced by a static scratch, and his hand covered one of hers. "I think it's fine now," he said, the voice not entirely steady. "Thank you." She ceased, stilled. Then Patrick pulled the hand to his lips, kissing the back of it not with reverence, but fervency, once, twice, then holding it there, their fingers weaving and tightening around each other, while Shelagh realised the unevenness of her own fevered breathing.

She had wanted to respond, when he let go. She saw him flex and stretch his fingers before looking back at her, self-consciousness still traced upon his face. She tried to smile, but she could not fully compose herself. "I'll change it over to the other side," she said quickly, sensing his eyes follow her to the corner where she fumbled with the record, before turning back to him. He was standing now, the flush receded, as she began her too cheerful attempt to return the room to normalcy. "Did the delivery arrive this afternoon which you were going to show me?"

A short, high noise escaped from him. He swallowed and his eyes flickered to the ceiling, but he answered calmly, if slowly. "Yes. But it's actually upstairs, in our room. I don't know if you want to go up and see it. You ought to see the room to check you are happy with the decorating. Do you want to see it now?"

"Yes," she said quietly, taking his hand as they left the room and started to walk together up the stairs.


	22. Chapter 22

Her agitation had eased and steadied by the time they reached the top of the climb, a silly story Patrick told her about Timothy breaking the landing window leaving them merry-hearted. However as Patrick opened the door and switched on the light, she had a sudden image of what the room might once have been. It was an invented one; her two consultations with Elizabeth Turner had been in the sitting room, after which Sister Julienne took over the case, and all she recalled clearly was the pinched look on Elizabeth's face. Nonetheless what she imagined was as vivid as a photograph: the shape of the room, the same as the sitting room downstairs, pieces of furniture and where they might be positioned, nick-knacks, pictures, the histories she could not know. She steeled herself to enter.

It was entirely different from what she had anticipated. With the little pile of furniture, much smaller than she had thought it would be, huddled in the middle of the room, the room seemed far larger, a different shape even. Great blank expanses of wall and carpet rolled in front of her, worn yet seemingly untouched and waiting, and there was nothing to haunt her. Where she had expected a dappling of resentment, the fresh, bright sunshine of the paint glittered like spring as she stepped inside.

Patrick released her as they entered, but he hovered, tapping his knuckles against his chin. She shone at him. "It's lovely, Patrick."

"You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure. It's so big."

His mouth twitched. It was not a large room, although in comparison with the hutches of Nonnatus House, he saw how it might appear so. "The colour's alright?"

"Perfect."

"Timothy'll be pleased," he said. "And what about what's in the window?"

There was a trace of amusement in his face and Shelagh knew he realised she had not noticed what was there. Sheepishly, she looked and stopped, astonished.

Sitting unobtrusively in the bay window was an old-fashioned lady's dressing table. Dainty and elegant, it sat on slim, curving legs, its varnish a rich honey gold. Below the table top on either side were three narrow drawers, in the middle a stool, while on the surface was a small mirror, tipping an oval of light towards them. It was a delicate piece of work, some scratches and marks on the side and legs which could not be remedied hinting at rough treatment in the past, but it was beautiful and, the most extraordinary thing to her, unquestionably, unequivocally feminine. The dress which Chummy had presented her with, now fitted and finished and hanging in her wardrobe, had stunned her in the same way, but that was for one instance when ordinary life would be dispensed with. This thing of beauty was for every day, not one brief escape from that unadorned and plain asexual life she had known.

There was a quip Patrick had intended to make; it died on his lips as he saw her face.

Incredulous, she walked towards it, almost expecting it to fade as she drew close, pulling out the stool to sit down and touching the burnished surface. As she reached for one of the drawers and started to pull it out, in the mirror Patrick appeared behind her, his face wary. "I know it's very functional and there's not much space in it. We'll have to share the wardrobe and chest of drawers for a while. There should be room. I've cleared out a lot of my old rubbish. I thought a dressing table like this one was a bit more 'you' than a modern one, though, even though it might have more room."

He was prattling and she interrupted him, smiling in the reflection which guided her as she reached behind her to touch his side. "It's perfect, my love. It's absolutely beautiful."

Bashfully he looked away from the glass and down at her, resting his hands on her shoulders. "I wanted you to have something that was completely yours for your things, here in our room."

"You must have lots of bits and pieces you need to put somewhere. We can share it," she offered.

Patrick snorted. "I think I'd break the stool, sweetheart, even if I could squeeze myself into that gap, which I doubt. Top of the chest of drawers is more than fine for me. This is just for you." He bent down and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. "Thank you for agreeing to marry me." Reflecting back at him was a couple blessed with tranquillity, the woman's hand creeping up around the head which the man had nestled on her shoulder and stealing into his hair.

Suddenly her face changed. "Wait here a jiffy," she said, getting up from the stool. She offered no explanation, except a tiny chuckle, and left the room. He watched while she left and heard her pattering down the stairs, vaguely intrigued by what she was doing, content to wait, viewing the room through her eyes in its bloom and novelty, his hands in his pocket.

The pattering back up the stairs was slower and although her eyes still shone when she entered, in their depths was something profounder. Raising an enquiring eyebrow, Patrick said nothing and waited to be illuminated.

She held something small and white out towards him and crossed the room to the dressing table. It was a little pocket handkerchief. Opening the top drawer, she put the handkerchief in it. "There. I'm marking it as mine."

Her teasing pride was so absurd, Patrick could not help bursting out laughing and taking the two or three strides towards her to kiss her, in passion and amusement, enjoyment and tenderness. He revelled in each changing shade, those he had known before and had glutted his memory upon while she was in Scotland, those merely hinted or only now emerging, until he felt her hands moving to his chest to push him away. For a moment he thought he had gone too far, although there had been none of the rawness he had shown downstairs. But she did not step back and it was intentness, not distress, which greeted him.

"This is for you," she said earnestly, pressing a small, square parcel into his hand. "The bride's present to the groom."

At first he stared, not at the parcel, but at her. He had expected nothing, knowing how limited her resources were, how much she had had to buy to join the world as it was now and how deep her pride was that she should not come a pauper to their marriage. Had he been asked, Patrick would have said, sentimentally perhaps although truthfully, that she herself was present enough, her rapidly improving health greater than any possession which he could be given. Met by her sincere, eager gaze however, he started to unwrap it.

It was a gold gentleman's cigarette case, made in a style which had been fashionable before the war. He already owned one, a workaday chrome-plated case, bought to replace another, equally serviceable, which he had mislaid. Beside this, that case appeared like worthless trash. Baffled at how she had possibly afforded it, a familiar tug of guilt jabbing at him that she had felt forced to, he opened it. A neatly ordered line up of Henleys confronted him and touched him more than he could say. "And I thought you wanted me to cut down," he started, the dry wit with which he so often tried to camouflage what he felt fooling neither Shelagh nor himself. Then, on the other side of the inside of the case he saw three initials inscribed, none of them his own, and he realised how much greater even than money the value of the gift was.

"Your father's." It was not a question.

"Yes," she nodded. "My mother gave it to him for his birthday the year that she died."

"Elspeth doesn't mind?"

She shook her head. "No. Rob doesn't smoke, he loathes it, and I think he'd disown Jamie if he took it up! They agreed you should have it."

"So my habits are already endearing me to the in-laws," he said wryly, before continuing, quietly and seriously, taking her hand in his. "I will treasure this, Shelagh. I really will. And, as I couldn't ask your father for his permission, if you don't mind, I will take this as the nearest thing to having his blessing."

"You should," she responded, her eyes as clear as they had been when she gave her ecstatic silent answer to the question Timothy had asked. In the preciousness of the hush which followed they simply looked at each other, too moved to break the stillness, and found themselves framed within the other's eyes, a part of the other, within and surrounded by them.

Eventually he quickly squeezed the hand and spoke, looking down at the dressing table beside them, the tone of his voice consciously lightened. "So, where do you want to put it? This," he added, laughing. "I think I'm fairly comfortable with keeping my cigarettes in my jacket!"

Shelagh twinkled at the joke, but his question left her disconcerted. Searching the room, she tried to guess where such a piece of furniture would have belonged in the past, stepping away from him to look from different angles. She could not envisage where it would have been. "I don't really mind," she said dismissively, wrinkling her nose and looking quickly around. "Wherever you think would be best."

Patrick gave a mild shrug of his shoulders. "Choose," he said. He was kind, but it was a command, albeit one which placed ownership of the room within her hands. "Where would you like it?"

Indecisively, she looked at each of the walls. She was tempted just to suggest leaving it in the window, yet knew that that was trying to avoid the decision and made no sense.

Patrick spoke again, hesitantly, trying to open up the way to make it easier for her but uncertain how. "Probably it would be best to have it on your side? I don't know whether you'd prefer to decide where you want to put the dressing table and then we can sort out everything else around that, or sort out where you want the bed first." While he watched her, the thumb of his right hand fidgeted.

"I can see that." Small indentations were appearing above her glasses at the top of her nose. "I think sorting out the bed first makes more sense, doesn't it? It's bigger. Where does it normally go?"

"It's been in different places at different times." He was not lying, although as he said it, he knew it sounded like he was. "Genuinely, Shelagh, I don't mind. I know all of this must be strange for you," he said gently. "Whatever, wherever you'd like."

It was not quite a sigh she gave, nor was it a laugh, but he could hear parts of both. Her look was assessment, however, rather than avoidance. "Opposite the window, then."

"It's south facing. You won't get any attractive dawns or dusks."

"We'll still get a view though."

He smiled. "Alright, sweetheart. Opposite the window."

"Do you want to move it now?" she asked, wondering if he realised how much her offer was a search for a task behind which she could hide. Even now she started, wandering to the middle of the room and examining the pile of furniture, trying to work out the easiest way to turn the frame and whether it would be better first to remove the mattress.

Patrick scowled. "You are not lugging things around like some dockside labourer. And I don't trust you to sit there and let me do it by myself. Don't worry. I'll get it done some time next week. Maybe I'll make your nephew help me as payment for letting him come on my rounds. From what you've said, he could pretty much shift it all single-handed."

She thought about protesting, retorting that she was probably a more fit and proper person to be moving heavy things around than he was, given the state of his shoulders, until the joke about Jamie made her laugh; and in that moment to reflect that he had his pride as much as any other man, his shoulder possibly as much the reason for dismissing her suggestion as gallantry was. Remembering the happy ache of knowing she was seen by him as a woman, she smiled to herself and said nothing, rather than wound his manliness's little vanity.

Patrick moistened his lips, preparing to speak again. What he was about to ask went further still. "Is there a particular side you would prefer?" he said shyly. "It would make sense to have the dressing table on your side and the chest of drawers on mine."

"I don't know," she replied mildly. "I think you're much more likely to have a preference than I do, Patrick." As she raised her eyes to him, he acknowledged with a slight movement of his head that she was right. "Which side?"

"It's not a side as such. Nearer to the door."

"So you can get to the telephone faster if there's a call in the middle of the night?"

"Yes." He knew she went through the same routine of disrupted sleep and dragging senses dizzy with tiredness from oblivion to alertness in moments. Even so he marvelled at how instinctively she knew.

"There, then. You'll go on the right and I'll be on the left," she said. It was cheerful and matter of fact, but her eyes were sliding away from him, peering at the sharp, impassive angles of the corner of the headrest, while the fingers of one hand tapped awkwardly against the edge of the mattress, jerking away from it as though it stung.

With many other subjects he would have put his arms around her as he asked what it was which troubled her. But Patrick suspected he knew already; and that topic was the one above all where he was afraid even to take the steps to where she was let alone to touch her, instead standing inert, watching, his bed separating them. "Shelagh," he began, swallowing awkwardly, "it doesn't have to be like this if you aren't comfortable." Although she did not react, the fingers stopped their tapping. "There are no obligations or expectations, not for where we sleep or – " he faltered, seeing her look up again with the same intent and open gaze, but was determined to finish, "anything else. Anything. Nothing more than you want to do, my darling. _My darling,_" he echoed. "I'll wait, I don't mind how long, until you're certain."

"I know you would. It's because you would that I do want to. I am certain, Patrick. It's not that I don't want to. I do." Was it shameful, to say that? She did not believe in her heart or her conscience that it was and ever since the night in Aberlour when she had puzzled in such agonised confusion, she had longed for this conversation, knowing it was only him to whom she could open herself entirely. Yet it sounded brazen, stumbling in the opposite direction of the fear she wanted him to assuage. They were standing as if in the kitchen again, all they wished to admit naked on their faces, talking of fragile spirit lamps and wicks which would not burn.

"What then? Is this what you were worrying about when you said you were out of sorts in your letter?"

"You remember? Yes."

"I remember everything from your letters," he said very quietly.

"So do I."

He gave a brief, derisory exhalation. "I don't think my moans and groans are worth remembering."

"Not just the ones you sent to me in Scotland. All of them."

It had taken courage to write those letters, writing and re-writing them with his head in his hands, even more to post them. Summoning that same courage, he slowly took the same route she had taken around the collection of furniture, until he was by her again. "Are you," he did not want to tempt the use of the word 'afraid'; that that might be her answer was what frightened him. The substitute he fished from the air seemed pathetic. "Are you nervous?"

"No, not nervous. Not exactly."

"I am," he said.

To begin with she did not reply, surprise playing around her mouth. "Why?"

"It's been a long time," he started, the remark too honest to be droll. "And I don't want to unnerve you, Shelagh. Or worse to hurt you."

By the time he ended the sentence, her own anxiety was briefly forgotten in the simple wish to remedy his. Slowly she reached up and gently stoked his cheek. "You won't. I trust you. I love you."

"What is it then?" he whispered.

She faltered on the edge, her lack of confidence in herself, not him, what held her back. She had had the words when she planned what she might say; now they were trapped in a stammerer's shivering mouth and while she hesitated, he still stood beside her, waiting to listen, the anxious frown hardly kept at bay. Twisting her hand around the headrest, she took the last step.

"I'm not nervous, Patrick. I'm really not. Not about where we sleep or," she mimicked his intonation and cadence, "'anything else'." He always looked boyish when she teased him; it still surprised her how much that particular smile, of which he was so unconscious, beguiled her. He continued to listen, the space and silence she required freely given and gradually she found her ease. Loosening her hand on the headrest, she turned fully to him, then sat down, perching on the edge of the mattress, her action mirrored by him. "I want to. I want you," she said, with such winsome sweetness the statement of her own desire seemed more like a gift she gave. "It's just I don't know how I should be then."

"In what sense? What do you mean?"

Although she did not answer immediately, it was no longer because she was muted, only because she sought the exact words. "I want to be able to be properly like a wife then. But I don't know what I should be like to do that."

Her hands were clasped on her knee and tentatively Patrick reached out to place one of his over them. There was so much riding on how he answered her now; he wondered if this, a week before it started, was the first great test of their marriage, his capacity genuinely to cherish her weighed now by how he could reassure her. He felt one of her hands slide from underneath his and then the inexpressible comfort of her placing it on top of his, stretched across it.

"Like yourself. That's all, Shelagh. You don't have to 'be' anything," he said. "It's not one thing, it's lots of things, different things. Sometimes it's passionate and sometimes very quiet and other times natural and easy, like coming home at the end of difficult day. And later on maybe it will be because we're trying for children." He paused, wondering if the next remark would sound too frivolous. She had been so starkly honest, however; it called for the same, even at the risk of sounding ridiculous. "And sometimes it's just, well, fun. And funny." A small, detached part of his mind seemed to be listening from far away, telling him how much his voice sounded as though he was explaining a particularly complex word to Timothy and how ironic it was that they were sat on the edge of a mattress while having so chaste a discussion of the subject. Then he sensed it: the movement of her thumb softly stroking the back of his hand, running from the crease at his wrist just above his watch up to just below his knuckles where her fingers lay, then back again to the start. She was not looking at him, though. He waited until she did. "But whatever it is, Shelagh, it will be us, just as we are. We won't suddenly be different and we'll work things out. You don't need to 'be' anything except yourself, my darling. It's you that I want. My wife." She blinked at the words and the thumb stopped, while he started to smile, as he always did at that last thought. "That's the extraordinary thing for me. It will be you and you'll be my wife.

"Does that make sense?" he added, although he did not think he needed to ask, the certainty he felt so complete. Shelagh nodded and leaned forward to kiss him. She still held his hands and their lips scarcely parted, but what they offered one another was peace; and while she was not ready yet, when the time came, she knew now she would be.


	23. Chapter 23

**This is only the first half of another two chapter section, but Chapter 24 is taking ages to get written so I thought I would get at least this bit posted. Sorry it's a bit incomplete. The next chapter will, I hope, tie it up more completely. :)**

**I should probably 'fess up a couple of things here. Firstly, both of my own grandfathers were doctors in the war, one in the RAMC, the other in the RAF, and that's one reason why I find Patrick Turner so interesting a character. Secondly, the detail about the order in which the doctors at Dunkirk were evacuated is true.**

**Thanks, as always, to all the readers, followers and reviewers. Your reviews and feedback are so lovely to have! **

As Shelagh began her descent from the bicycle racks outside Nonnatus House, she was not unseen. Someone was standing in a window watching her and scarcely had she turned out into Leyland Street before there was a stuttering knock at the door of Sister Julienne's office.

"Enter."

Chummy stood uncomfortably in the doorway, as though attempting to squeeze her whole form into a smaller space. In her hand was a letter. "I'm awfully sorry to bother you, Sister Julienne, but could I have a little moment of your time?"

"Of course."

Chummy picked her way into the room, meticulous in shutting the door and stepping back unnaturally far from the table behind it in order not to bump it. Flustering as she pulled the chair away from the neatly ordered desk, she pulled too far. The legs hit the table with a dull slap. Winter roses shook within a little vase on the top.

"Oh no, so like me, I'm so sorry," she said, starting first to steady the vase, then making tiny pats at the air as she sat down.

Sister Julienne, unruffled by the assault on quiet and peace, only smiled. "How may I help you?"

"I don't really know. It's more advice than anything else. Peter and I have been in the most terrible fix about something and we've been wanting to talk to you about it for the past few days, except we didn't want Shelagh to know. It's about Dr. Turner."

What inklings Sister Julienne had had, they had not tended that way. Her face did not alter, however she leant slightly further forward. Although only Shelagh would have realised, there was mild perturbation in the slightly keener expression. "Please," she said, "go on."

With a sigh, Chummy placed the letter on the desk. "Do you remember how Peter has been helping Timothy Turner with preparing his Best Man's speech for next week?"

"Of course. I had a delightful afternoon sharing some of my own memories with him."

"Oh, gosh, yes, of course you did," Chummy replied. "Well, one of the things Timothy was most anxious to find out about was about his war service. Boy's own hero stuff, I suppose. We weren't sure at first, but one of Dr. Turner's friends suggested we help him investigate one part of it so he didn't go chasing around after everything and get himself into all kinds of scrapes."

Sister Julienne laughed. "I get the impression he is a little too inquisitive for his own good at times!"

"Exactly. I contacted my friend Binkie's brother and he helped us to track down Dr. Turner's senior officer at Dunkirk." Something in Sister Julienne's throat caught. She knew he had served in France towards the end of the war, but she had not known he was there in the chaos of 1940. Chummy, intent on her story, did not notice. "Well, Timothy wrote him a very jolly letter explaining who he was and asking about his father as a soldier. On Wednesday, this arrived. As well as the letter to Timothy there's a covering letter to me explaining about Dr. Turner's service. I don't know whether it's extraordinary brave or utterly ghastly, and Peter and I are completely muddled whether we should let Timothy see his letter or whether he's far too young." Eyes flitting between Sister Julienne's face and the blotting paper on the desk, Chummy handed over the letters.

Slowly Sister Julienne read the letters, first the one to Chummy, then the one to Timothy, carefully and discreetly worded, written for a boy whose age the writer had had to guess at, protecting him, if needs be, from the full truth. Finally she returned to the letter to Chummy and read again of the pity of war, only hinted at in the letter to the son. When she folded the sheets of paper once again, her corners of her eyes were brimming.

"What tremendous courage," she said quietly. "A remarkable man." She returned the letters to Chummy.

Briefly Chummy fiddled with the sheets, starting to return them to their envelope, before changing her mind and laying them on the desk in between them. "Yes, he is rather, I suppose." Her hands were clasped next the letters; from a distance it would have looked as though she was praying. "Do you think we should let Timothy see his letter then?"

"What is it that concerns you about it?"

"It feels horribly as though we've blundered into something awfully private which we shouldn't really know and it would be the most dreadful thing to tell Timothy about it if his pa's tried to keep it a secret so long. I ought to have thought about it, but I didn't ever imagine it would be like this. I hoped if we had a reply, it would be something jolly saying Dr. Turner had been an excellent field doctor and stiffened everyone's resolve and all that, not that it would be quite so, well, confusing. I should be boiled in oil for not realising this might be the type of thing we'd find out."

Sister Julienne covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hide a touch of amusement at Chummy's wording. "Is that not what this gentleman is saying?" she asked, mildly. "That Dr. Turner was brave and capable, assisted his fellow soldiers and fulfilled his duty of care as a doctor outstandingly in the most difficult of circumstances?" She paused, watching Chummy ponder her question. "What was it that you found confusing, Nurse Noakes?"

Chummy opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, her lips fluttering and pursing before she spoke. "What happened to that poor private. I know Dr. Turner is a terribly kind man and such a good doctor and part of me thinks it was marvellously brave to have done what he did, then the other part keeps wondering 'What if I'm wrong?' and wasn't it a sin? It's against the law!" She dropped her voice uncomfortably. "It's against God's law too. Sister Julienne, you don't think it was right, do you?"

The wisdom of experience lay upon Julienne as she answered. Her earliest nursing, when little more than a girl and long before she was Julienne, had been among the maimed returning from the Western Front. The second war she had spent among people whose district was destroyed when the bombs rained down, pulling bodies from the wreckage, trying to resurrect what she could. While she had not travelled from continent to continent as Chummy had, the virulence in the world's dark heart she knew more about. "War itself is evil. All killing in war is appalling. But this killing, motivated by compassion, is maybe the least appalling which I can imagine. It would not have been undertaken lightly. Where we cannot cure, we can care, and I believe that that was what Dr. Turner did."

Unease had harried at Chummy since the letter arrived, multiplied every time she saw Shelagh or Timothy, buffeting her when Dr. Turner was present; Sister Julienne's voice releasing the nagging barb. "Do you think we should let Timothy see the letter? He's still awfully young to hear about all of it and I'm horribly worried that it would embarrass his pa into smithereens."

"I suspect Dr. Turner would be embarrassed by praise as lavish as in this letter, although I imagine it is hardly different from the praise both you and I have given while sharing our memories with Timothy," she said, her head cocked enquiringly, watching Chummy acknowledge the accuracy of the observation by looking down at her feet. "And I am not convinced it would be appropriate for this to be included in a speech at the wedding. I suspect that can be ensured with your husband's assistance?" Again, Chummy silently acquiesced. "But I think Timothy should know the type of man his father is. Any son would be gratified to read such a tribute, in particular the final paragraph. It is most impressive."

Together they found the page and read again the words which summated the tale of quiet courage, although Chummy did not need to see them to remember what they said.

"Do you not think there's a dreadful danger he'll be upset, Sister? What if he asks more questions about what exactly Dr. Stewart meant?"

It was not inconceivable, thought Sister Julienne. Usually Timothy was like other children of his age, lively and indefatigable; but now and then the insight which life had taught him so brutally would flash, blaze momentarily and shrivel to nothing once more. It was that hard won intuition, which made her think he should be told, suspecting he would understand and love his father more for the sacrifices made in the name of duty. Yet that was also why he might fret over the vagueness of some of the letter, knowing more must lie underneath, probing and questioning unless it was explained; and to explain it would be to take him far into confidences his father did not reveal, which Sister Julienne suspected he had probably not revealed with his future wife. "Perhaps you are right, however I think it is rare for truth, if it is shared kindly and out of love, to harm.

"May I pray about this tonight, Nurse Noakes? I should like to. And tomorrow I shall offer what advice I can."

"Of course, Sister Julienne. I'm sorry to be such a bally pain."

"Not at all." She ushered Chummy from the room, winding through the chairs of the chapel until they reached the door from which Chummy could proceed upstairs to her room. She smoothed down the front of her scapular as she turned, returning to the altar to kneel and pray. It was not only for guidance that she prayed; she offered the Turners to God, that in their future, its happiness and sorrow, they would be blessed, held close within His hands; and, as she had prayed so frequently before and would do again, she prayed for the grace to feel only joy when the time came to give away the sister who was most precious to her.

The next morning when she drew Chummy aside, suggesting that while Timothy should be given the letter, he should not be alone when he read it, offering her office and herself for such a meeting if desired, Timothy too was thinking of that letter, rueful in his belief that it did not exist. He was in his bedroom, Himalayas of paper piling up on his desk. Every anecdote he had discovered was in front of him, organised into areas for the speech, ready to be turned into solemn paragraph, copied and posted to Uncle Kenneth. There was so much he had learnt through them. The stories had surprised and shocked him; frequently they made him giggle. Others puffed him with pride, looking beyond the shabby clothes, perpetual lateness and frequent worry to find something illusive but of tremendous worth. In the middle of his father's life, however, was the void of the war years, only a place name and facts from an encyclopaedia. Akela and her husband had warned him how unlikely it was he would receive a reply from the unknown Dr. Stewart, even though he had laboured over the letter, deploying the most adult language he could muster. And yet, somehow he had hoped a reply would appear, the final strand of the rope and the one which made it sure. Sighing, he picked up his pencil and tried to put it from his mind: he had an hour and a half before Dad would get home from the surgery and take him to a friend's house for the afternoon. In the evening Shelagh was coming to make Christmas decorations for the sitting room out of brightly coloured paper. In the meantime, he must complete his task. Starting with the topic where he needed no anecdotes from others, his father's domestic abilities, he began to write, only stopping when Mrs. Harrison called him downstairs due to an extraordinary rarity: a telephone call for him, where Sister Julienne invited him for lemonade and cake on Monday afternoon after school.

When Monday came, he chirpily meandered to Nonnatus House. He knew Shelagh would not be there, as she was having supper with Auntie Louisa before attending a lecture with her, events which seemed exceptionally dull to Timothy, but made her glow with anticipation and his father smile every time she mentioned it. But the house had lost its terror in the past few weeks, softened by frequent exposure. These were women who had offered him generous accounts of working with his father or had helped him revise for his tests. Another offered him surreptitiously pinched slices of cake. Even the noise of Nurse Franklin or Sister Evangelina's brusqueness no longer alarmed him, the prospect of them answering the bell no longer fearful.

It was Sister Julienne herself, however, who greeted him. "How lovely to see you, Timothy! Do come in." Taking his satchel, coat and cap, she asked him about his day, commiserating over the sad account of his team's losing a lunchtime football game. As they left they hall, she directed him, not towards the kitchen, but the chapel. "Would you mind joining me in my office for tea, Timothy? I realise it is less pleasant than the parlour, however there are two things I would like to show you without everybody else seeing," she said pleasantly.

Obediently he followed her into the office, sunnily slouching in the chair and swinging his legs as he sat down. It was tiny, far smaller than either his father's office in the hospital or his study at home, but scrupulously tidy, while the great gold cross behind her shone. On her desk was a tray with cake, lemonade and tea, and next to it an unframed painting. It was this which she picked up.

"This is what I was intending to give your father and Shelagh as a wedding gift. I was wondering if you would have a look and, I hope, give it your approval."

In front of Timothy was the Nonnatus House garden, smothered with red and golden leaves, the trees bare but highlighted with glimmers of sunlight which cast shadows over the ground and made richer its tapestry of autumn colour. Against the back wall at the right, in fine and delicate brush strokes, were a couple, their faces indistinct in the watercolours, but a man and a woman in earnest discussion, their hands close, while in the foreground was a boy in a burgundy jacket and grey shorts, pensively sitting on the edge of the pigsty.

"Is that me?"

Sister Julienne nodded. "Yes! I'm so glad you're recognisable!" From a drawer in her desk, she produced a piece of watercolour paper and unfolded it, revealing the sketch she had made for him on the day of the christening. "Do you remember how we talked about art and watercolour paper? I was inspired and thought maybe I could turn it into a painting for your father and Shelagh."

"It's great!" said Timothy, picking it up to look more closely. "That's Dad and Shelagh at the back, isn't it? It's really clever how you've got all of the colours."

"Thank you. You think they will like it?"

"Yeah! We've not got a picture of us all," he confided. "I got Alec, Nurse Lee's friend," he explained, unconscious of the inadvertent illumination he had just offered Sister Julienne about one of her charges, "to take one of me and Dad as a Christmas present for Shelagh and another one of Shelagh and me for Dad. I got frames and everything. But we haven't got one of the three of us yet."

"I imagine that there will be some taken on Saturday," she said, passing him lemonade and a generous slice of cake.

"I suppose so. They might be a bit weird though! Mum and Dad's wedding pictures are." After a munch of cake, Timothy divulged further. "They're both staring at the camera and smiling in a really funny way. We used to have that photo on the sitting room sideboard, but I don't think anyone liked it much. We've put it up on one of shelves now. Dad was going to put it away, but Shelagh said she didn't want him to. We've got a really good photo of Mum on the sideboard now. Dad took it and it's loads better." He took another bite and peered at the painting again, missing the benevolent way the nun was looking at him. She remembered, if he did not, the lost look the child once carried with him, a grey and pasty sickness now forgotten in his health. "This is great because it sort of does look like Dad and Shelagh, because he looks worried. He's always worried about things."

She laughed over her teacup. "I'm glad you like it. It only remains to select a frame and I was hoping you could advise me, Timothy." Leaning against the desk were two wooden frames, one slim and light, the other darker, which she held up to him. "Which do you think would be better?"

Timothy squinted. "That one," he said, after a pause. "It's the same sort of colour as some of the others."

Sister Julienne laid the selected frame on top of the painting and they admired the combination together. Set against it, the muted colours of autumn gleamed even more strongly. "I feel very fortunate to be able to exploit your insider knowledge!" There was a soft rap at the door. "Enter," she said, quickly adding to Timothy. "I'll get Fred to frame it in the morning." Then she turned to the figure standing indecisively in the doorway: it was Peter Noakes, newly arrived from being on duty. "Good afternoon, do come in. Would you like tea?"

"Good afternoon, Sister Julienne. Hello, Timothy."

Although Timothy grinned broadly at him, Peter struggled to return it. He had seem wisdom in Sister Julienne's suggestion that he was there while Timothy received his glimpse into this corner of the world of men, but he touched the cup of tea he was offered like an explosive.

"I have asked Constable Noakes to join us this afternoon, Timothy," she said pleasantly, sitting down behind her desk. "He also has something which he wishes to show you. It arrived for you several days ago."

Timothy's eyes darted from face to face. "Is it another letter?" he began. "Is it the one I've been waiting for?"

"Yes," said Peter and handed the letter over. The tea cup rattled in its saucer as he put it down.

Eagerly Timothy seized the letter, beaming. "Please can I read it now, Sister Julienne? It's about Dad in the war, you see. He was at Dunkirk and that was famous and I never knew what he did but now I will. I know it's rude to read letters in front of other people and I can wait if you really, really want me to, but I've waited ever so long for it!"

"Of course you want to read your letter. Think nothing of it," said Sister Julienne, apparently serene. "Perhaps it's better if you read it here as you could ask us if there is anything you don't understand."

"Like difficult words?"

"Yes, like difficult words. Please, do go on."

He started to devour the first few words, then looked up excitedly. "He called me Mister!" he exclaimed. "No-one's ever done that before!"

Peter looked wanly at him, but almost immediately the boy had curled over the letter again. Sister Julienne watched, observing every movement in the boy's face as he read, seeing him grow stiller and stiller, hearing him say nothing; the features of his face slowly twisted, until he sat like a childish gargoyle.

_Dear Mr. Turner (Timothy, if I may),_

_Thank you very much for your letter. It was most interesting to hear about your father's forthcoming wedding and also your endeavours as regards the best man's speech. It sounds as though you have been extremely enterprising and I wish both you and your father the very best of luck, in his case for his new marriage and in yours for the speech. I hope it enjoys the reaction your hard work merits._

_You are right that I was your father's senior officer in France in 1940. I remember Captain Turner (as I knew him) well and am happy to share some of my recollections with you. Your father was an excellent field doctor: he was efficient, highly competent and never forgot that those we treated were people first, patients second and soldiers third. It does not surprise me to hear he has gone into general practice. _

_There are two memories in particular which I have of your father, both during our time at Dunkirk. The first concerns his leadership and personal courage while we were waiting to be evacuated. Your father, along with one other, proposed that the order of evacuation for the medics should not be by rank, but first those with families, followed by those who were married and, finally, the unmarried (among which they numbered). They were both adamant that this should be the case and volunteered to be the last to leave, knowing that the likelihood that they would be evacuated was very limited and the consequences for those who remained might be very unpleasant. Regardless of the possible cost to himself, your father chose to do what he believed was right and encouraged others to do so._

_The second memory concerns his work as a doctor. During the war we were frequently faced with situations which challenged us all as doctors and as people. Your father had a motto, which I still remember: 'Treat often, cure sometimes, care always'. He lived up to it at all times and in very difficult circumstances. He did whatever was necessary in order to alleviate his patients' suffering, even if it meant making decisions which he personally hated or doing things he found repulsive. _

_None of the men in our field hospital were decorated for bravery at Dunkirk, however I find it hard to believe that there were many who were braver and am honoured to have led them. Captain Turner was one of the bravest and you should be very proud to be his son. It was a privilege to serve alongside him. _

_Yours sincerely,_

_George Stewart_

"What does 'allyvate' mean?" he asked eventually, stumbling over the word, without looking up.

"Alleviate," she corrected. "It means to make something which is unpleasant less bad."

"Like making something that hurts better?"

"Almost. It's slightly more like making it hurt less." She could not tell whether he understood the nuance.

"And what does 'repulsive' mean?"

"It means something which you find disgusting."

The movement of Timothy's head was so slight it was unclear whether it was a nod or a shake. Quietly, Sister Julienne got up from behind the desk to linger by its corner, refilling her cup, all the time watching and waiting to see where the next query might lead. She exchanged glances with Peter, now bent forward with his hands on his knees, observing the boy look again at the page.

His mouth opened fractionally as his brows contracted. Somewhere else in the house somebody was laughing; an irregular gurgle from the boiler punctuated the silence at erratic intervals. Then the mouth closed again and he turned back to the first page. If either the policeman or the nun released a sigh of relief that the boy was not probing further about those ambiguous lines, it was too quiet for the child to hear it.

Without speaking, Sister Julienne crouched down next to the boy. She did not touch him, but laid her arm along the top of the chair back where he could ignore it or rest into it as he wished.

"Timothy?" said Peter, leaning towards him from the other side. "You alright?"

He looked around at him, then her, now the barriers protecting him from a world which seemed so much vaster and more frightening. Although he nodded, his face was bathed with fear. "Sister Julienne," asked Timothy, "can you read this bit?" He handed her letter she had already read, pointing to the third paragraph, and let her read it once more. "What does '_the consequences for those who remained might be very unpleasant' _mean?"

After she looked up, she did not move her eyes from his face. "It means that those who remained, like your father, knew that there might not be enough boats for everyone so they might not be evacuated and able to get home before the enemy arrived; and because most of the other soldiers had left, they would not be able to defend themselves."

"Would Dad have died?" he cried out. The shaking was clearer now.

"No, Timothy, no," interrupted Peter. "He'd have been captured and then he'd've been sent to a prisoner-of-war camp. That's nearly always what happened to the soldiers who were captured."

"But not all of them?"

"Most of them."

"Would they have locked him up and everything?" Neither of the adults spoke, the only response Sister Julienne taking his hand. "When would they have let him out?"

"At the end of the war." Peter saw the quick calculation made, the realisation that the period would have been half of the length of Timothy's life.

"And he might have died, anyway?"

Sister Julienne spoke quietly. "Yes, he might. But Constable Noakes is right. Your father would almost certainly have been taken prisoner."

He ignored her attempt to pacify him. "And he let other people go first, even though he might have died." He knew from her face he was right; he needed no answer. "Dad would've known he could die, wouldn't he? Or that he'd have to go to a camp?" Only half of him could see the adults now. The other half was on a beach in France, waiting and waiting, while other boats disappeared into safety.

"Yes," said Sister Julienne, "he would have known and he did it anyway for the sake of other men he was serving with. It's a wonderful thing to have done."

"It's really brave, Timothy," said Peter. "Really brave. You've got to be proud of him."

"I am," he said. Although the voice was strange and broken, he was not crying and his face did not change, still stone-like as he stared beyond the safe confines of the room; but he lent his head against Sister Julienne's shoulder, and then he turned it, until his face was hidden in folds of cloth where her wimple met the scapular.


End file.
